Sins of the Father
by bethaboo
Summary: Bella Swan breaks free from her mother's influence and is desperate to prove her music blog speaks for her generation. Edward Cullen is an Irish punk rocker with a dark past. When they collide, nothing will ever be the same. AH Mature.
1. A Letter from a Disillusioned Fan

**SOUND & THE CITY -- A Boston Music blog**

_Entry 457: A Review of Athair's newest album "Aimin' to Misbehave" -- A Letter from a Disillusioned Fan_

10/21/09

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Dear Edward Cullen,

It's with great regret that I have to inform you that I'm no longer one of your fans. It's too bad, because at one point, I pretty much worshipped the ground you walked on.

When I was 11, my dad, who was a police officer, was shot. He wasn't even on duty, but it didn't matter--he was the kind of guy who stepped in and did what was right, even if he wasn't wearing his uniform. After he died, my mom assumed full custody of me. A lot of girls might have appreciated this, seeing as I was at the age when girls start emulating their mothers. I didn't. I hated it every second of it.

I started listening to rock music when I was 12 because it was what my dad listened to, and also because it pissed my mom off.

At first it was the Who, Dire Straits, the Beatles, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest. Then, Radiohead, Stone Temple Pilots, the Presidents of the United States, and most importantly, Nirvana.

I was 16 when I discovered Athair and you, Edward Cullen. Music is like a god to me, and I would never lie about it's importance in my life, but you, almost singlehandedly, saved me from murdering my mother, my stepfather, and almost everyone else in Orange County.

Thus, my reluctance to break up with you.

I endured rumors of all night boozing and jackass shenanigans. I pretended that the truckload full of women that you rotated through like a revolving door didn't exist. I even pretended that you weren't arrested for indecent exposure while on stage last year.

I ignored all the shit that you surrounded yourself with (Rosalie Hale, I'm looking at you), because I couldn't imagine someone so passionate about music ignoring what mattered most. I was wrong. Totally, completely, 100% wrong.

As someone who has obsessed for years over your music, I feel completely qualified and within my rights to say that you're a fucking fraud. You lured us in with the promise of perfectionism and obsession. You swore that you would never compromise your artistic ideals--and you were right; you didn't just compromise them, you completely fucking destroyed them.

I really tried to like "Aiming to Misbehave." In fact, I listened to it for three days straight, sending my roommate to the corner drugstore for ear plugs. However, the promising title (my favorite character is Jayne, btw) is the only positive point in an album that is an absolute stew of noxious, almost-radioactive crap.

Starting from the top, the album cover is a paean to your ego. Come on, Edward, do more women _really _need to see your cock? I've heard that it's made the rounds so often that I'm shocked to see it hasn't fallen off yet. However, I don't really think celebrating that it's still attached by putting it on your album cover (no matter how how many weird colors or graphic elements you use to mask it) is either necessary or appropriate. It also might severly hamper your sales if stores aren't actually _allowed_ to carry the album becuase it's considered public indecency. Your marketing team might not have informed you of this, so I thought I'd tell you as a favor, considering all the years we've spent together.

As for the music, I have to confess that I never once, not in the three consecutive days (that's 72 total hours, Edward), could make it entirely through the first song on the album. Of course, referring to it as a "song" might be rather generous of me, considering it sounds as if gang of apes were let loose in your studio for three minutes.

"Foreplay," however, isn't even the _worst _track on the album. When confronted with the conundrum of choosing just _one _track to be considered the worst on this cacophony of an album, I found myself totally stumped. Is it "Ride Me Like an Animal"? The lyrics of this progressive work tell us to call you "big boy" and "donkey kong." I am not sure that more references to your male anatomy are prudent at this point--or really necessary, considering that it's displayed on the cover for us to judge ourselves.

In fact, there's an alarming number of references to the same object that's displayed on the cover. Some bands, such as Muse and Coheed & Cambria, are taking more of a thematic approach to albums these days. I enjoy those efforts, but I have to tell you that an album created solely about your dick is honestly not very interesting. This may come as a surprise, since there are an enormous number of women who probably tell you otherwise.

Track #3, "Sin with Me," is, simply put, an abomination that's masked in the form of a "love" song. I put love into quotations because I am not sure that you're 1) sure what love means or 2) capable of understanding the emotion at all. If "Sin with Me" is your idea of what love really entails, then I have to inform you that counseling is an excellent option.

"Shamrock Shaking," the fourth track, relies on exactly three chords and despite the overly rousing chorus, could possibly double as a lullaby. As jigs go, its profoundly mediocre and could have been composed by a drunken 80 year old to clear out any local pub at last call.

As for the fifth track, "The Rag Rag," I think the idea was to make us unsure whether to laugh or cry. Instead, all I want to do is kick you in the balls for writing a song about having sex during a woman's period. If this is your idea of a joke, you should be aware that there are some things that just aren't funny. This is one of them. Don't ever do it again, you sick bastard.

"Bushed," about Bushmill's whiskey, sounds like it's a commercial jingle. See my earlier comments regarding selling out. Perhaps if this is instead your idea of a viable song, you should consider drinking something other than whiskey once in awhile. It appears it's totally pickled both your brain and your ability to write good songs.

Even though I've said it before, I'll say it again. Albums themed around your dick are lame. "Swallowing Salt" is a craptastic lament to bad blowjobs. Maybe you should have composed a lament to bad song writing instead, because that would have been more appropriate under the circumstances.

I understand how it's a trendy thing to cover a song that's way outside your normal genre. However, I have to tell you that I don't think that ABBA and Irish punk are really two genres that should ever be mixed. Despite this, I can see why you thought "Fernando" was a good idea in theory. It's a song that talks about war and guns, and while it _is_ ridiculously cheesy, I think you could have potentially pulled it off, if you had practiced it more than twice or had put any thought into interpretation whatsoever. Instead, the song feels as if you reached into the musical grab bag and pulled a random track out and stuck it on the album to round out the piss poor tracks you already had. ABBA's original version is vastly superior to yours, and, considering they're my mother's favorite band and therefore my _least _favorite band, this is saying something.

Rounding out this album that attempts to pass as actual _music _is the final track, titled, "Hair of the Dog." Now please correct me if I'm wrong, but I _believe _this track is referring to the practice of getting absolutlely beyond-drunk wasted, and then puking, and then _re-consuming _the alcohol. I'm hoping (more than you can possibly imagine) that this is _not _what you were referring to, but considering the quality level of this whole body of work, I have a horrible feeling that my assumption is right and that you yourself did this a number of times during the recording of this steaming pile of shit.

I know this review has seemed rather harsh at moments. Believe me, I would rather not have written it--I would much rather not be forced into questioning _why _someone with so much natural musical talent would waste his time writing material like this. I hate being so negative, especially to you, Edward, but there is no choice here. Someone has to do you the service of telling you that you're capable of so much more than this worthless garbage, but until that day, I'm not going to waste any more of my time trying to figure you out.

Sincerely,

Bella Swan

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**AN: This is the prologue to Sins of the Father, my new AH novel-length story.**

**This entry, #457, is an important part of the story, so I have included it here as an introduction to the characters.**

**Chapter 1 will be posting tomorrow and I will be updated every Tuesday.**

**Thanks to my beta, JosieSwan (you MUST check out her new story, In the Shadow of Ursa Major--on my favorites list).**


	2. A Mother Daughter Showdown

**AN: Thanks for all the great reviews on the Prologue! The plan is to update every Tuesday (and I already have some chapters written). Follow me on twitter at bethaboo555 for teasers and extra little bits!**

**Thanks to my awesomesauce beta, JosieSwan**

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**Bella**

The restaurant was typical Renee—overpriced and over-cultured, with tiny toothpick chairs that held socialites and aspiring models who came to be seen, but not to actually eat any of the rabbit food the place served. I rolled my eyes at the waiter's fake French accent, and gave him the evil eye when he tried to cop a feel by arranging the starched white napkin in my lap.

"I'll let Mrs. Dwyer know you've arrived," he said, his snooty voice not quite covering his obvious distaste for my attire. I toyed with the idea of telling him that Renee would have his ass if she was ever referred to as Mrs. Dwyer, but decided against it, smiling beatifically instead, sending him scurrying to the kitchen like a rat looking for a hole.

"Isabella, darling!" I heard Renee before I saw her. Ten pairs of eyes swiveled my way as my mother picked her way through the tables, teetering on mile high heels and dressed in some utterly ridiculous chiffon monstrosity that made her look as if she were contemplating flight.

Unfortunately, I was here, and even more unfortunately, we were both confined to the ground.

Renee stopped in front of the table, an expression of breathless excitement on her delicate features. Or then again, that might have been the Botox Phil was endlessly injecting her with.

"Mom," I said flatly. She settled into the chair and arranged her plumage, before trilling charmingly to the hovering waiter, "two iced teas and two green salads, dressing on the side."

I grimaced, anticipating yet another inedible lunch that would totally screw up my digestive system. Our order given, Renee turned to me, the melting helplessness in her gaze sharpening to knife points.

"Isabella, I won't say you look well, because you don't. Not at all."

I shrugged, mentally preparing myself for an hour long interrogation on my multitude of flaws that would masquerade as polite lunch conversation. Sullenly, I slid farther down in my chair and regarded her with bored angst. I loved the way that my mother made me behave like a rebellious eleven year old instead of the mature, mostly-grownup, 24 that I was.

The razors that doubled for her eyes took in every single rip and tear on my jeans, the plain gray of my t-shirt and then she actually shuddered in distaste as she glared at my favorite pair of black Chucks.

"I won't ask if you got the clothes I sent, because I know you did. I tracked them all the way to your door, Isabella. But if the box was ever unpacked, I would be astonished."

I had to force the smug smile down. "It wasn't."

Renee sighed with such suffering you'd think she'd just made it through New York Fashion Week—her equivalent of a world war. "You do realize that they'll be wrinkled beyond reason now."

"Yep." After so many years of displeasing my mother, I had finally learned to take what I could from these wonderful moments together—it certainly helped that baiting her was so damn easy. The waiter appeared with our salads, and there was only the sound of polite laughter and the screech of cutlery on overpriced china for a few minutes as Renee pretended to eat and I tried to find something on my plate that wasn't green.

Of course, she hadn't come from LA to "eat" an overpriced bunch of weeds, and without further ado, Renee set her fork down with a decisive motion. "Isabella, I want you to know I'm not going to give up. There is so much _more _to you than this. . .rebellion."

"Mom, it's hardly a rebellion when it's been more the rule than the exception."

"I continue to wonder how I gave birth to a child who is so different from myself," Renee said, and I knew this was more of an observation than a question. She didn't really want an answer, she just wanted to complain some more about how I didn't care about clothes or makeup or using my body to sell a bunch of crap that nobody needed.

"It's called nature versus nurture," I said snidely. "You left me with Charlie for too long, and by the time you remembered I existed, it was too late to make a dent."

"This is your future, Isabella, and as much as I would like to give you up as a hopeless case, I care about you too much to do that. Someone has to make you see what a mistake you're making."

"I went to college," I argued. "You won that battle."

"_Public _university, in _Washington_, of all places." Renee shuddered, as if imagining the wind coming off the Puget Sound and ruffling her chiffon feathers. You were admitted to Pepperdine and Stanford and the University of Southern California. You could have even lived with Phil and I."

"Yeah, cause I loved doing that so much."

"Sarcasm, Isabella," Renee said with a hard edge to her voice, "is not very becoming."

"Good thing I don't give a crap about being becoming then. You know, I give you full permission to totally give up. You don't have to waste a second more worrying about me or my future. I'm sure it's cutting into all that time you spend sunbathing and shopping and trying to look eighteen again."

The lines around her mouth Renee wanted so badly to eradicate tightened. "You are trying my patience, Isabella."

Someday she was going to realize how much I enjoyed doing that, and it wouldn't be nearly as fun anymore. Good thing that day was so fucking far away. For all her beauty and sophistication, Renee had the intelligence of a marshmallow. She wasn't subtle or deep, and poking holes into all her lame, materialistic arguments was way too easy. However, you had to give her some credit, because even if she wasn't exactly sly, Renee was certainly determined. She kept going, as if I wasn't the intractable daughter that she'd never quite wanted.

"I was speaking to Natasha the other day—you remember my friend Natasha? She's with Ford Models—and she told me that Boston is actually an up-and-coming hotbed of fashion. She said she might be able to . . ."

"No," I said flatly, interrupting her before she could even ask. There was no point. I would have to be starving and homeless and _crazy _to do what Renee wanted me to. Especially if that included modeling in any shape or form.

"Now, Isabella, I know that you don't think that you're beautiful enough to model, and goodness knows, I've had my own misgivings about your looks through the years." Renee paused and her head tilted slightly, as she mentally removed the clothes I knew she considered hideous and reassembled me the way _she _wanted me to be. "However, I do believe you're finally growing into your looks. Goodness knows, it didn't take me so long, but then, you aren't all me. You're your father's child through and through."

I was probably the only one who could really understand how much of an insult this was, and so I said nothing, staring stonily at my plate, as Renee rambled on. "I told Natasha that you'd call her up. Or maybe I should just give her your number. She said one of her best photographers might have an opening next week, and you'll need test shots. . ."

As Renee rambled on about headshots and auditions and casting calls and stylists, I tried to tune her out and take stock of my life, such as it was. Ever since my dad Charlie had died and she'd plucked me out of Manchester, England to live the "fabulous" life, I'd been trying to find my happy place again, and finally, I felt like I was making some progress. I wasn't about to let Renee waltz in and take it all away again. Before, I'd been too young to have a say in what she did with my life, but now, I was old enough that I could finally tell her off. Though I thought I'd long buried all of my bitterness and resentment for her behavior after Charlie's death, it all came rushing back, swamping me, until I felt as if I was nearly vibrating with it.

"Stop," I growled out, and Renee looked up from a list she'd pulled from her Prada bag—plans no doubt, for my triumphant modeling debut. "I won't do it. Today, or tomorrow or ten years from now." I knew my voice was louder and harsher than it usually was with her, mostly because I hated letting her know how much her blatant disregard for everything that was important to me hurt, but it _did _hurt. By my own measurement, I was doing okay; it wasn't my fault that she used a different system entirely.

Despite her ridiculous appearance, Renee had a backbone of iron. She wasn't about to give in easily. Straightening almost imperceptibly, her eyes narrowed like laser points. "Isabella, I've let you play around long enough. You're 24. It's time to get serious."

"I _am _serious." My voice cracked a bit at the end, and I hated that I'd let her see behind the mirage that I could care less what she thought of me. She was my fucking _mother_, and she didn't want me to be happy. In the end, it was still all about her—like it had always been.

" If you were serious, you would do something about your future. Instead, you insist on playing these silly games, and tinkering around with that . . . ._blog_."

Renee had never hesitated to tell me exactly what she thought of my writing, but this still stung. It stung so much that I gave into weakness and wished that Charlie had never stepped in front of that asshole's gun. If he hadn't, he would still be alive, letting me be exactly the person I wanted, not forcing me into a carbon copy of my mother.

"My blog is my future. That's the life I want. Not some lame, materialistic existence full of air-kisses and Botox. I'm not ever going to be you."

"You could be though, Isabella. You're pretty—almost _beautiful—_at least if you would desist dressing like a bum." She rambled on, going over all the points of my physical appearance and explaining, _oh so_ _sweetly_, that although they could never measure up to her, they were still good enough on their own.

Fuck this. I was done being "good enough." It had been a long time coming, and I'd said it all to her so many times I'd lost count, but despite that, I knew I had to finally stick to my principles. If I didn't accept _anything _from her again, I wouldn't have to even give Renee the slightest say in my life. As it stood now, she still had the ability because it was her right. After today, I would make sure that this was no longer be true.

The words that had been brewing inside for the last thirteen years exploded out of me. "No. _No_. It's never going to happen. Not _ever_. I'll fucking die before I ever do anything you want. I'm done. With you, with Dr. Botox, with those ugly clothes you insist on sending me. I'm _done_. Until you can accept me exactly as I am, ratty jeans and brown hair and all, don't even bother talking to me again." I stood up suddenly, the twiggy chair falling to the floor from the force of my anger.

Renee spluttered, her hands fluttering in supplication. "Isabella, please. Do not make a scene."

"It's high time I did," I told her and turned and walked away.

Despite that I prided myself on never letting Renee's insensitivity get under my skin, my heart was thumping madly as I let the door of the restaurant slam behind me. I was free. Stupid but _free_—and hungry too, damnit.

I decided to celebrate by stopping by Demetri's diner and ordering a cheeseburger. After all, I'd pretty much skipped lunch because 1) it was disgusting and 2) I'd left before I'd even managed to eat a bite of what could only loosely be considered edible.

The bell over Demetri's door rang out as I opened it, and stepped into a world that was night and day from the restaurant I'd met Renee at. She would have rather died than eat somewhere owned by someone who worshipped meat the way that Demetri did—but I loved Demetri's dedication to his favorite food and the results of such devotion.

"Bells!" Demetri called out as I walked into the stainless steel hole-in-the-wall that made the best damn burgers in the whole city. "Good to see you again, child." He walked out of the kitchen, a huge black man with a head of Rastafarian dreads. He looked terrifying, but I knew from personal experience that he had a heart of gold.

I slung my leather hobo bag on a barstool and rested my elbows on the shiny stainless steel counter. "You too. I'm starving. Can I get a burger?"

"Your usual?" he asked, wiping his hands with a towel.

"Sure," I said and Demetri turned to the pass-through to put the order in, but I reconsidered. It had been an exceptionally shitty morning. I needed something more than just the usual. "Demetri? Could you actually make that a double? With bacon?"

He chuckled, a low rumble deep in his chest. "Having a rough day?"

"I had lunch with my mother." I resisted the urge to pour out all my frustration and anger and resentment about Renee, but apparently my face said it all, since Demetri gave me an exceptionally sympathetic look—even for him—and came around the counter to wrap his arms around me. He was warm and cozy and comforting—and that wasn't even taking into consideration that he smelled like grilled meat.

"Honey, you need to tell her off."

This was typical Demetri. He'd been counseling me to give Renee a piece of my mind ever since I'd wandered in here one day two years ago, my nose following the incredible aroma emanating from the tiny restaurant. I pulled away from his embrace, patting his bicep. "You'll be proud of me. I finally did."

He looked skeptical for half a second, his eyes examining my face, before he pulled me into an even tighter hug. "Demetri," I gasped, suddenly unable to breathe. "You're killing me."

"I'm just so proud of you," he said, releasing me. "You get extra bacon!"

I grinned at Demetri, burying the thought that Charlie would have loved him. "If telling Renee off means I get extra bacon, I'm going to do it every day."

Demetri moved back behind the counter again, and gave my order to Felix, the line order cook. "You're gonna have a heart attack by the time you're 30, Bells. Now tell me about the blog. How's it going?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm down more hits. I don't know what it is. I can't seem to generate _any _interest."

Demetri, who was practically a surrogate father, was a loyal reader of my Boston music blog, and I often asked him for suggestions on how I could make it better. "I've been telling you. You need another article like that one you wrote about Athair's last album."

"That isn't funny," I hissed, annoyed that nobody would leave that fucking entry alone. "You know I regret writing that."

"But you meant it. Every damn word." Demetri moved down the counter, refilling drinks and handing out napkins like he was the guardian angel of cholesterol.

"That doesn't matter," I retorted. "It was _private_. My own private rant. I never should have posted it."

"And it was best thing you've ever put on there. Maybe if you put all your private thoughts up, you'd get more hits."

"_Sound_ _& the City _isn't supposed to be about _my _private thoughts. It's not like Twitter or Facebook or some lame social networking pseudo-confessional. It's supposed to be an analytical, thoughtful, and _objective _blog about the Boston music scene. With reviews that aren't personal rants."

"Maybe that's your problem. That don't sound all that interesting."

Demetri's criticism stung and I recoiled, pleating a napkin before tearing it into tiny pieces. "Are you saying my blog isn't interesting?"

He stopped refilling a ketchup bottle to swing his massive head my way. "That ain't what I said, Bells. I'm just sayin' that the post about Athair was the _most_ interesting. And it got you the _most _hits."

"And the most hate mail," I muttered.

"Hey, look at that Perez guy. He's hated, but he's _famous_."

"I do not want to be the next Perez Hilton!"

"You gotta do something, though. Something other than what you've been doing." Demetri's voice was kind, as he leaned over the counter and plucked the shredded napkin out of my hands. "You're a smart girl—you'll figure it out. But just take it easy on yourself."

It was easy for Demetri to say this—he had a successful business and a job. I had just told off my one way of making money. Alice was not going to be exactly pleased when I got home and told her that the box of clothes she'd spent the morning unpacking was going to be the last.

I hesitated. "You never said that you thought the Athair review was interesting, only that it was risky."

"It was the best thing you ever wrote, Bells, and you know it. Before I read it, I thought maybe you were all cold and British. But you're not. You've got some fire in you somewhere. You just gotta find it."

He slid a styrofoam takeout box next to me and I picked it up. "How much do I owe you?" I asked, fumbling in my hobo bag for cash.

"It's on the house, honey chile. Meat and cheese and more bacon than you can shake a stick at."

I couldn't help but beam at him, and wish just a little that Renee could see me now. She'd have a heart attack. No—her head would probably implode. "My arteries thank you."

I turned to go, but Demetri stopped by me putting a hand on my shoulder. "You come see Demetri if you need more advice. That's _always _free."

And just like that, he cut my defenses to nothing. It was easy to forget after seeing Renee that I did have people who cared about me and who supported me, regardless of what I did. I hadn't only come here for the burger and the animal fat, but for that oh so necessary reminder.

"Thank you," I whispered, afraid that if I said it any louder, the tears that were threatening to spill out my eyes would fall. And no matter how much I loved Demetri, I didn't want him or anyone else to see how much Renee's attitude hurt.

I was three blocks away from home when my phone rang. I checked the number and almost stumbled. It was Renee. She had never once called me post-argument, and I hesitated. Maybe she was really sorry. Maybe she wanted to tell me that after all the crap she'd put me through, she'd decided to support me regardless of what I chose to do with my life.

Nope. I knew better than to fall into that trap. I ground my teeth together and hit the ignore button on my phone. It was time I figured out how I was going to really make it on my own, and unfortunately, taking handouts from Renee—even if she had no idea that they were handouts—was going to have to end.

I climbed the three flights of stairs to the apartment I shared with Alice, which I optimistically referred to a loft, and unlocked the door. It was quiet, almost silent, and I thought for a moment that maybe Alice had left to get lunch, when I paused and heard that the confident slice of scissors through fabric.

I walked into the living room that doubled as our headquarters and found Alice, my best friend and business partner, bent over a worktable, painstakingly cutting a pattern out of black cotton. She'd unpacked the clothes that Renee had sent, and they were pressed and hung on a rack at the back of the room. A dress on a dressmaker's dummy stood in front of her, and even though I knew almost nothing about sewing, I could tell Alice was in the middle of creating a pattern for it.

Knowing how she felt about being interrupted in this "crucial stage of development," I passed through to the kitchen and grabbed a plate, popping a sweet potato fry in my mouth as I transferred the burger (aka the paean to all things fattening) to the plate. I laughed when I saw that instead of the normal toothpicks that held the halves together, Demetri had used jaunty British flag picks.

"You're home early," Alice said as she walked into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders and neck. I didn't know how she spent so much hunched over that damn table, but I supposed that she didn't have much of a choice. Our operation was small—and well, not 100% legal. We hadn't been able to afford to hire any help before this, and now it was totally out of the question.

Which reminded me. I still had to tell Alice that we needed to do everything we could with this last box of clothes. I watched as she snagged a sweet potato fry and closed her eyes at the heavenly goodness.

"You stopped by Demetri's," Alice observed as she pushed her tiny body up on the counter. "Lunch must not have gone very well."

"Not exactly, no." I took a big bite of burger goodness and tried to postpone the inevitable as long as possible. I dreaded telling Alice that I'd basically cut off our business at its knees. Alice was the real talent behind the operation—I only provided the samples that we copied from. Without my contributions, we were going to be a underground couture copier with no couture to copy.

"She didn't offer to take you shopping then?" A year or so ago, Alice had come up with the brilliant plan of conning Renee into taking me on shopping expeditions when she was in town. I'd done it once or twice, but it only gave Renee the wrong idea. Whenever I suggested we go shopping, she would instantly assume that a modeling career was only a short skip, leap, and a jump away and nothing was farther from the truth. For the last eight months, Alice and I been making it solely based on the "necessities" that Renee still shipped me.

"No. She didn't. In fact," I chewed a stray piece of bacon, "I kind of told her off. Told her not to send any more clothes." Sheepishly, I poked at the glistening mound of sweet potato fries on the plate. I couldn't meet Alice's eyes. I felt as if I'd let her down, even as I'd managed to set myself free.

"You told her to stop sending clothes?" I looked up to see Alice's eyes nearly bugging out of her head. It wasn't exactly an attractive look, and I'd have to tell her when she wasn't quite so. . .upset.

"I had to, Al. There was no choice. I. . .I couldn't do it anymore." I hoped fervently that Alice would understand. She was my best friend. She knew what I'd had to go through with Renee. Even if her goodwill was our bread and butter, it wasn't more important than my sanity.

To my surprise, I was almost knocked over as five feet of sewing genius collided with me. Tiny arms held me like whipcord and I felt a rush of relief at her reaction. "It's going to make things a lot harder," I told her honestly, suddenly not wanting to varnish over reality with platitudes.

"I don't care," Alice said, pulling me back and looking me straight in the eye. "You telling off that bitch has been too long in coming. Now," she said as she appropriated more of my lunch, "we need to figure out how not to be homeless."

"Well, there is some money saved in the business account. Not a lot, but some. Enough to keep us afloat for maybe a month or two—if we scrimped and saved."

Alice's face fell almost instantly, and I groaned. "Alice, I told you, _told you_, not to make big purchases without asking and/or telling me first."

She shrugged, her tiny bird shoulders moving under the simple black cardigan she wore. "I unpacked the box and it was _good _stuff, Bella. _Great_ stuff. But I needed fabric to get started, so I went to the stores, and well. . ." She dug a handful of receipts out of the back pocket of her skinny jeans and handed them to me.

I added them up mentally and decided that Alice's idea to brainstorm how not to be homeless was a great place to start. "Well, the sooner you can get those clothes copied and sold, the better. Because we're pretty much stone broke until that point."

Even with rushing, I knew it was a good two to three month turnaround from the beginning of the process to the end, and I also knew it would be up to me to fill the shortfall somehow. Alice would have her hands full with the sewing, and it was my fault that this had happened, so it was my responsibility to fix it.

"What can we do in the meantime?" Alice asked, almost echoing my thoughts.

"There's the blog," I said. "If somehow I could boost circulation and hits, I could get a lot more advertising. That could hold us over until you have the clothes ready to sell."

Alice looked at me skeptically as she shoveled sweet potato fries in her mouth. "And how are you going to boost your hits? The only thing you've ever written that was even remotely well-read was that review you did of Athair."

"I know," I said morosely. At least with the clothing business, Alice was doing what she was _good _at and in an industry she loved, no less. I was only involved because my passion, the blog, was undistinguished and decidedly unpopular. Sometimes I felt as if the only readers I had were Alice and Demetri—and they only read because they loved me, not because they loved what I wrote.

"You could write scathing reviews of all the bad albums you can think of," Alice suggested, the expression on her face openly helpful.

I made a face. "No. Absolutely not. I couldn't anyway—the only reason I was so nasty about Althair was because of how much I used to love them. That's what made it so memorable, I guess; I felt personally invested in the whole debacle. Besides, I am not going to build my reputation on negativity."

"But Bella, people _like _reading about negative stuff. Why do you think that one review was so popular? Everyone thought it was hilarious that you were so nasty about it."

I made an even worse face. "And that's exactly the problem. That's not what I want to _do _with my life."

"Well," Alice said, jumping down from the counter, her black flats landing lightly on the tile floor, "you've got to figure out what that is exactly. And pretty damn soon. I'm going to go finish cutting out my pattern. Thanks for the fries."

I watched as Alice exited the kitchen and tried to remember how exhilarated I'd felt only an hour before. Now, the only thing I could feel was panic mixed in with a healthy helping of terror. I'd never been homeless before and I didn't exactly want to start now. And the idea of crawling back to Renee was only slightly less loathsome than being a bum on the street corner.


	3. The King of the Fucking World

**AN: And we now meet our lovely douchebag of a leading man.**

**Thanks to JosieSwan, my beta extroadinaire who convinced me that I could redeem this fucker. We'll see. . .**

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* * *

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**Edward**

Fuck, was there _anything _better than being a rock star? I glanced down at the woman kneeling at my feet, her hands and her hot, wet mouth wrapped around my cock, and I decided that I couldn't think of a more kick ass profession.

After all, what other job not only allowed a man to act like an immature tool, but _encouraged _it? Plus, there was a lot to be said for the sheer amount of pussy available to such an irreverent asshole. If I'd just been a man on the street, it wouldn't be nearly this easy. Easy, yes, but not _this_ easy.

The raucous noise of the crowd on the other side of the door faded to a dull roar as she twisted my cock in her hand, her mouth hard and insistent, almost desperate to produce some kind of reaction from me. What the fuck did she expect? I'd been getting head for ten years, and though it felt pretty damn good—because it was _head—_there wasn't anything that her glitter lip-glossed mouth was doing that I hadn't felt about a million other times before.

She (fuck if I even remembered her name, though she'd breathily whispered it to me only five minutes ago) was really getting into it now, her breathy, fake moans producing an accidental vibration that tightened my balls. Damnit, I wasn't going to come because she was fucking inept and couldn't blowjob her way out of a paper bag.

I looked down at the dark roots mixed with her blond hair, and tried to count back from a hundred, disgusted by my own standards. Just because she'd snuck herself into the green room didn't mean that I'd had to let her untalented mouth near my dick. There'd been a time when I'd had real standards for my groupie fucks, but lately, I'd just been taking whoever threw themselves at me hardest.

This one had been the epitome of pitiful too, her hair brittle and too blond, her makeup thick and greasy and setting into unattractive lines around her mouth and eyes, her shirt cut nearly to her navel, showcasing boobs that had probably been bought by Mick fucking Jagger at least thirty years ago. Twelve months ago, I would have shown her the door, not deeming her worthy to touch me, but tonight I'd been too tired to call Emmett to get her washed-up, fat ass out, and too lazy to find someone who was actually capable of making me come.

The worthless ho groaned around my cock again, and I wanted to tell her to get a different fucking trick, because this one wasn't working, and if she got me off, it would be totally accidental. I looked down her shirt, more because I was bored than because I wanted to see her scarred, plasticky boobs. The sight convinced me once and for all that I'd let my standards slip way past acceptable—I liked my women with big boobs, but I drew the line at bad boob jobs.

"Do you think," I said, conversationally, no hint of the fact that her mouth was currently overworked around my dick, "you could actually _do _something resembling a blowjob?"

Her eyes flew open, terrified and full of something I recognized as self-esteem hitting rock bottom. "Mhhmmmm arrrrrr ummmmmm," she mumbled, her mouth full of cock.

"Just fucking _do _something," I hissed, realizing only after I said it that her whole problem had been in the overenthusiastic execution. Fuck.

Her garbled words, however, renewed that burning sensation in my balls, and I almost started counting again, offended that I would even be _close _to coming with such a fucking amateur, but then her hand ghosted over my thigh, her fingers brushing the raised hairs, and I fucking gave in.

Balls tightening, I refused to give her any kind of warning—if she wasn't adept enough to pick up the signs that I was about to shoot my load down her fucking throat, it was her own damn fault—and I came. Not exactly hard, and not exactly rough, but I did come. She stiffened, her eyes flying up towards mine. I stared down at her, relentless, as I rode out the orgasm. Fucking groupies.

She slumped to the ground, and I turned away, zipping up my much-abused cock in my boxer briefs. I heard her spitting out my come and I rolled my eyes. She couldn't even fucking _swallow. _What was this? Amateur fucking hour? I was disgusted, more by my own standards than her hopelessly mediocre performance.

I walked towards the bottle of whiskey on the table and didn't even bother with a glass, simply taking off the top and swigging down a good portion of the booze inside. "Fuck," I ground out, finally turning around to face the woman I'd chosen to touch me. If I was being painfully honest, the way the whiskey burned the back of my throat felt better than her mouth had. Which just really said it all.

I took another swig of whiskey and eyed her warily, wondering what she was waiting for. Why didn't she just fucking get a clue and leave? Surely she didn't expect me to reward that exceptionally shitty bj with some sort of reciprocation? I decided that weirder things had happened, and my head beginning to buzz with the whiskey I'd just inhaled, I looked at her with more kindness than I had the entire space of our acquaintance—which was now nearing ten minutes.

"Time for me to get ready," I said, and I swore her mouth went into the most pitiful ass downward pout I'd ever seen. The only woman who could honestly pull that shit off was Angelina Jolie, and if she was here, I wouldn't be going on stage only partially satisfied, that's for damn sure.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her eyes disappointed and needy. Just what I needed, another fucking obsessed freak with stalkerish tendencies. I was going to have to pull Emmett aside and make sure he nipped this shit in the bud.

I nodded, deciding that conversation was the best way for her to get attached. Maybe if I didn't speak, we could forget what had just transpired. God knew, I was doing my best to do just that.

Shoulder slumped, she actually walked over to me and tried to kiss me. My wide-eyed horror must have given away what a totally fucking _wrong _decision that was because she backed away suddenly, mumbling her apologies. That was _damn _right, I thought as the door _finally _shut behind her fat ass, she better be sorry for the piss poor orgasm she'd just wrung from me. When a man isn't even fucking willing to come, that's a sad state of affairs.

I'd just taken down another slug of whiskey, the bottle half gone now, my buzz settling nicely into my stomach, and had walked over to the row of guitars, when the door flew open again. "Damnnit, Emmett," I growled, not even bothering to turn around to face the shitty excuse for a groupie who'd I'd nearly had to shove out the door the _first _time, "get her ass _out of here_."

"And whose ass would that be, Edward?" Rosalie's frosty bitch tone echoed through the nearly-empty green room.

"Well, _fuck_." My mood had just gone from pretty crappy to total shit. "I thought you were meeting me in Boston." I turned to face Rose, her face perfect and so icy that it could probably fucking cut the diamonds she wore on her ears.

Rose ignored my comment and swept into the room, her model-thin body flawlessly encased in skinny black jeans and a strategically torn Athair t-shirt. Her four inch black stilettos brought her blue, ice chip eyes nearly equal to my own and I inwardly groaned. The only thing worse than a shitty blow job was a Rosalie Hale confrontation. I lifted the bottle I held to my lips and let more whiskey slide down my throat. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it as drunk as humanely possible.

"I knew it," she crowed almost triumphantly. "I knew you'd fuck a groupie the second I turned my back."

"On the contrary, I don't care if your back is turned or not. I'd do it in fucking front of you if I wanted to."

Her face crumpled with disgust and the barest hint of rock bottom self-worth that had filled the groupie's eyes. And didn't that just take the cake, I thought with growing glee, I'd brought _the _Rosalie Hale to her fucking knees. Who knew that the Princess would love slumming it quite so much?

"I can't believe you. She _just _left didn't she? And did you fuck her? It smells like sex in here."

Wrong. It didn't smell like sex, because I'd have to have been a lot drunker than this to fuck that ho's diseased pussy. It actually smelled like my come and her saliva, which was probably lying on the floor in the corner, like a bad surprise. "You shouldn't be all that shocked," I said shortly. "I never told you that I'd be faithful. It's not in my DNA. And even if it was, I wouldn't be. I do whatever I fucking want." I was only vaguely aware that I sounded like a spoiled brat—the whiskey was a conflagration in my stomach now and anger at Rose for trying to turn me into something I wasn't was flaming out of control. And fuck, besides all that, I needed to find my fucking band and get ready for the show that we were about to play.

"This isn't what I signed up for," Rose sneered, tossing her blond extensions. At least these, unlike that ho bag's, were expensive, bought and paid for by her hotel baron father, and didn't feel like horse hair. I knew from personal experience, because Rosalie and I had been fucking for the last three months. At least we had when I'd felt like it. She was so damn sure she could tame me, but it was never going to happen, no matter how many times I told her. I'd even been up front that being an asshat was ingrained in me, but she'd just tossed that blond hair of hers and smiled knowingly, as if one taste of her pussy could change everything.

It hadn't.

"I don't want to do this right now. I have a show." I slumped down on a chair and began tuning the guitar, even the whiskey unable to dull my hearing as I tuned it precisely. I'd never been drunk enough that I couldn't tune my own instruments and I wasn't about to start now, even if Rose was throwing a fucking shit fit.

"Edward," Rosalie nearly growled, the fire of her temper finally breaking through all that ice she surrounded herself with. I loved to wrench away the self-control that she'd spent her entire life honing, and though it was easiest to do it with sex, it was also fun to do with anger. Besides, the last thing I felt like doing right now was fucking Rose. Even my cock, usually up for her sleek, slim, overly tanned body, refused to stir in my jeans. Clearly that groupie had sucked away every single sexual impulse it had right now. Which was fine, I decided, as I drank more whiskey. I felt more like getting wasted than dealing with all of Rosie's daddy issues.

"I'm busy," I told her bluntly. "Come back when I have more time, and I'll fuck you then. Maybe after the concert. Except that we're going out to some club after, and I'll probably get too wasted. How about Boston?"

I saw the temper flash across Rose's face, but I wasn't drunk enough to see the hesitation. Of course, I wasn't surprised. She still wanted me. And who I was to deny her?

"Don't even bother arguing," I interrupted her. "Just say yes."

She deflated in front of my eyes, her face going all swoony and ridiculous. And a terrible thought crossed my mind—what if she'd decided to fall in love with me? That was just bad all around. I drank more whiskey. I was going to have to get Emmett on this situation, stat. He still got a little star struck around Little Miss Princess, but a good fuck would cure that shit fast.

"Maybe," she said, and I knew this was as good as I was going to get. She was kind of annoying, but she was good in bed—more than most groupies I knew—and I couldn't deny I liked the attention that she brought with her. My sales had gone through the roof since rumors had started swirling of me and her dating, and I wasn't about to cut that shit off before Athair could really benefit.

"Come here and give me a kiss," I ordered. I had to play nice if I was going to get her to stick around for the next album release. After the disaster of the fifth album, Carlisle had said we could really use the publicity that she brought in.

And idiot that she was, she walked right over and wrapped her arms around me. The guitar between us protected her from finding out that I wasn't even close to being turned on, but I made a good show of kissing her like I wanted to fuck her—fast and hot and deep. I even relented and cupped her skinny ass in my hands, pinching her hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of her fucking sucking my face off, she slid off me, her blue eyes all soft and coy, and I internally swore again. I would talk to Emmett _tonight_. I couldn't risk fucking her in Boston, not with the way she was looking at me right now. She'd even forgiven me for the groupie, and I knew that didn't bode well.

"I'll see you later," she said, slinkily mincing to the doorway in her high heels. She looked over her shoulder, her face a mask of sexual desire. "I can't wait until Boston."

I bet she couldn't. Wait until she got a load of how good Emmett was in the sack. No, he wasn't a rock star and she couldn't read about her and him in _US Weekly_, but he'd rock her world. I'd make certain of that.

Turning back to the guitar in my lap, I continued tuning, my attention totally absorbed by the Fender in front of me. Every time I thought sex was the best reason for becoming a rock star, I touched one of my guitars, and the music came rushing back to me, a cascade of notes and chords and snippets of the songs that I'd forged from nothing but silence.

I stroked the neck of the Fender I was cradling, the music washing over me. I liked the calm before the storm of the concert almost best of all.

"Don't let your girls see you do that, they might get jealous." Emmett stepped into the room, a cocky grin on his face. "Especially Rosie. She seemed a bit. . .upset as she was leaving."

I grimaced. "She knows how I am. She just doesn't want to see it."

Emmett leaned against the scarred and pitted concrete wall, crossing his bulky arms over his huge chest and eyed me with concern, looking like an odd cross between Rambo and Dr. Phil. "One of these days she's going to get smart and ditch you."

"We both know that you're waiting for that moment with baited breath. And like I've been telling you for weeks now, go for it. I don't care."

Emmett shook his head, acceptance and disgust on his face. I knew better than to take it personally. Unlike me, Emmett was a good man—and unlike me, he actually cared about Rosalie. "She wants you. Though god knows why."

I shrugged. "It's the rock star thing. Or the bad boy thing. But I've been meaning to tell you—I think her determination is reaching. . .unhealthy . . .levels. You need to do something. And this isn't a suggestion, it's an order."

Emmett looked vaguely amused. "I'm your security, not your slave. You can order me to take a bullet for you, to beat the shit out of anyone you want, but you can't order me to fuck your ex."

"Rose isn't my ex," I pointed out, my hand fisted around the neck of the whiskey bottle. The few inches of amber liquid in the bottom sloshed around in the bottle. "She's just some girl I fuck sometimes. And I've told you a million times, you're welcome to her. I've never really wanted her."

He snorted. "You don't want Rosalie Hale. I've thought you were crazy plenty of times, but this clinches it. You're fucking insane, man."

"Women are all replaceable anyway. Even Rosalie. No—_especially _Rosalie."

A small bark of incredulous laughter escaped from Emmett's lips and he pushed himself off the wall. "You about ready, champ?"

"Yeah, let the guys know that I'll be there in a minute. Just gotta finish tuning my baby here."

"Good, the crowd's getting a touch rowdy, and I don't want to fight my way out of mob tonight."

"I'll calm 'em down." I grinned and strummed the Fender. "Give me five minutes and I'll have 'em eating out of my hand."

* * *

Even though I'd switched to beer during the show, by the time I reached the party I could feel the combination of leftover adrenaline and all the whiskey I'd drunk making me higher than a fucking kite. And if I had anything to say about it, this was only the beginning. It'd been a good show, partly because I'd been riding that hard line of anger and resentment and whiskey and it had given an edge to even our softer songs. The crowd had eaten it up, and there was nothing like good old fashioned adulation to make a man feel fucking awesome.

Screw James Cameron, I was the king of the fucking world.

I moved into the club, flanked by Emmett and some of my bandmates. "VIP?" Emmett asked, as we were almost immediately mobbed by a whole group of young, hot blondes.

"Fuck no," I told Emmett. "We're staying right here." I slung an arm casually around the hottest of the women, and leaned down. "And what's your name, darlin'?"

"You're Edward Cullen, aren't you?" she asked breathlessly, biting a full lip with her even white teeth. "I'm such a fan."

"Guilty as charged," I grinned. "And I can see you're a _real_ fan." I slid my hand from her shoulder, curling it around her waist until it was resting on the bare toned flesh of her stomach, right under the cut-off t-shirt emblazoned with the Athair logo. Checking her out from head to toe, I decided she was a definitely an upgrade from both the women I'd been saddled with earlier today.

"I am," she nodded eagerly, and started to gush about the last album. I tuned her out, and turned towards Emmett. "I'm not too cool to party with the little people, once in awhile."

Emmett laughed, the sound booming out over the loud music and dull roar of the crowd. "You're such an egotistic bastard, Cullen. Alright, I'll let the manager know that we're staying down here."

Twenty minutes and three shots later, the blonde –I'd never gotten her name, and it didn't matter cause I would have forgotten it anyway—was on my lap, nuzzling my neck and the hand that wasn't holding another bottle of whiskey was making its way up her skirt. Life, I thought through the muddy haze of booze clouding my system, was fuckawesome.

"Oy! Billy, you wanker. Where the fuck have you been, mate?" The voice echoed throughout the spacious club, every single word slicing through my buzz like a knife. _Fuck_, what was a fucking Brit doing here? I felt my hands tighten and dig into the blond's thigh. She squealed and I gripped harder, the whiskey in my system burning like an incandescent flame. God damn fucking limey bastard.

Each word echoed through my mind, repeating until I couldn't even separate the syllables. And every word resurrected a memory that sliced me down deep, in a place that I purposefully tried to forget. I gripped the whiskey bottle and felt the liquid slide down my throat. I set it down deliberately and pushed blondie off my lap. "I have to go," I slurred, "and take care of some important business."

"What?" she spluttered, vaguely aware through the haze of booze clouding her blue eyes that something on the gravy train she'd attached herself to had gone horribly wrong. "What's going on?"

I dumped her rather unceremoniously on the ground when she didn't vacate my lap nearly soon enough.

Dominic Monaghan hit the edge of my vision and everything went blurred and red—I wasn't sure if it was the whiskey or the irrational anger that shot through me at the sound of his fucking voice. And it didn't even have to be him, it could have been anyone. I was just lucky he'd stumbled in just when I was spoiling for a fight.

Of course, I hadn't _known _technically, I'd thought that the whiskey and some more hot anonymous blond sex would be enough, but the moment I'd heard the voice, the need to kick some ass sent me over the edge.

As I moved towards the fucker, trying to keep my steps short so that I didn't sway, my last thought before I went ape shit on the asshole was that it was all _his _fault.

"Edward, I've been _really _fucking patient, but this shit has got to stop." I pulled away the pack of ice I'd been holding to my blackened face and looked through my one good, unswollen eye at my manager, Carlisle, who looked really fucking angry. I suppose he had the right to be, but I'd never made a single promise that I'd start to monitor my behavior. And well, I'd wanted to kick that guys ass. It didn't matter that I'd only been able to get in one nasty right hook before I'd fallen over—I did whatever I wanted and nobody was going to stop me from doing it.

"Whiskey," I barked to Emmett, who was still chuckling at my total inability to kick the ass of some small, pansy ass Brit. If I'd been sober, they would have been wiping him off the floor, but I was pretty fucking wasted, and it had been _me _they'd had to wipe up.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Carlisle asked, the frustration in his voice growing.

"Absolutely not. And," I added as Emmett turned to find some whiskey, "find that blonde again. She was hot and I was just about to make it to second base when I got so rudely interrupted by that fucker."

Carlisle made an incoherently angry noise, his temper clearly escalating beyond his own control, and he slammed the door behind Emmett. Thank god, I thought as the silence in the back room reigned. I'd thought he'd never leave. It was getting harder and harder to bait him into losing his temper—and since it was either prod him into leaving or deal with his stupid lectures, I didn't exactly have a choice.

I gingerly laid the ice back on my face and thanked all the booze I'd already drank because I knew it could have hurt a lot worse. It was late and with the adrenaline burned out of my system, I felt my eyes beginning to droop closed. Damnit, I was young, the _night _was still young. I wanted to go back out and party—pretend that I hadn't just lost it like that. It had never been that bad before. He hadn't even spoken to me directly, and every good intention—and it wasn't as if I had very many—had just evaporated. I began to doze off, the whiskey leveling out my mood until I wasn't even sure I cared anymore, either about the fight or Carlisle or even the music. All I wanted to do was float away to a place where nothing existed. . .

"Here," Emmett said, and I jerked awake, the ice pack falling to the floor with a mushy plop.

He was holding out an unopened bottle of Jack and a short glass filled with ice in the other. I took the glass and the bottle and poured, refusing to grimace as the bruises on my knuckles began to ache. Self medication, I thought, taking that first wonderful swallow, worked every single damn time.

"What happened to the Jameson," I complained. "You know I don't drink Jack unless I'm desperate."

Emmett collapsed in the chair next to me, his big bulk shaking the wood and the floor and some whiskey sloshed over onto my bloodied knuckles. I hissed at the sharp pain.

"Yeah, funny that. The bar literally sold out after your Jameson-fueled exhibition. Apparently you're a great role model."

"Fuck yes, I am," I said, grinning despite that it hurt like a motherfucker.

Emmett chuckled and then turned to me, and I felt something hard and edgy grow inside me.

"Why'd you go after him? He didn't even _talk _to you. Is it getting worse?"

This was what happened when you actually confided in the people around you—they brought up all this emotional pansy shit when all you wanted was to be left alone.

"No," I said shortly, drinking more whiskey. "Where's the blond? I told you to bring her."

"I'm having her brought to your hotel. Are you really sure you won't embarrass yourself?"

I glared at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. I've never had whiskey dick in my whole fucking life. I could get it up if I was half-dead."

Emmett rolled his eyes. "As you decide to demonstrate almost every fucking night. Seriously, Edward, this has got to stop. Or you've got to take it easy, at least. We're all worried."

"I don't need this from you," I told him bitterly. "I get it enough from Carlisle."

"And he's not half-wrong. I mean, we're all a little afraid we're going to find you dead one morning."

"Naw," I said, drinking faster and harder, "there's no fucking way that Carlisle would let his meal ticket die. I'll be fine. More than fine actually." I smiled, the grin of an angel who welcomed the fall into hell. "Let's go, I've got a blonde to fuck."

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**Minces words, doesn't he?**

**Follow me on twitter at bethaboo555 for extra teases & info PLUS I am starting a playlist for this story, link on my profile.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. A Surprise Visitor

**AN: So yeah, I totally posted early . . .I have zero patience. Plus, I work at a CPA firm, and it's April 15 and well. . .I could use a few good thoughts :)**

**I know a lot of you are mad at Edward right now, and I won't lie; you really SHOULD be. But there is redeemable parts in him, I promise, and you'll begin to see those. However, it's not going to be this chapter. This chapter, we meet some of our other characters :) (if any of you read TDIG, you should know how much I love me a good Rose/Emmett subplot)**

**Thanks to JosieSwan, who holds my hand and helps me manage my Red Sox ulcer, and who is the most fuckawesome beta ever. Read her new story, In the Shadow of Ursa Major--it's amazing!**

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**Emmett**

"You're still here." The last person I had expected to see still at the club after I'd gotten Edward and his "date" to the hotel was Rosalie on the ragged couch, her bare feet tucked under her, and her long, blond hair gathered into a ponytail. Her makeup had mostly worn off, and she looked far too young to still be up at 3 AM. If I was being really honest with myself, I was way too pleased to see her, and yet I wished she was already in bed, getting her beauty sleep like the good girl she wasn't. She deserved better than this life, but she seemed determined to choose it at all costs.

"You should get some sleep," I said when she said nothing to me, only followed me with those eyes that everyone else thought were an ice cold blue, but that I saw were hot and deeply vulnerable. I'd done some bad things in my life, and I'd decided that this must be my karma—cursed to truly see the girl that my best friend was doing everything to fuck over.

"You don't like me very much," Rose said in a soft, quiet voice. "I don't know why; everyone likes me."

"That's not it," I said shortly. "I don't dislike you, exactly." _I only want to take you away from all this ugliness. From all the ugliness you subject yourself to, over and over again. I want to kill Edward for putting those black circles under your eyes._

"He's with that other girl, isn't he?" The question was casual, almost as if she didn't care, but she was tired and upset and she couldn't quite mask the catch in her voice. "You took her to him," she said accusatorily, as if it was my fault that her heart was being stomped on by the king of all heartbreakers.

"I do what Edward tells me to do. And yes, she's with him tonight." I was mad she was mad, and instead of internalizing it as I usually did, I took it out on her and told her the blatant truth. I should have kept it to myself, but I figured it was as much her business as anyone's who Edward slept with. And maybe, _finally_, it would be enough to make her stop this puppy-dog act.

She was picking at a ratty hole in her black jeans, twisting the threads in her fingers and refusing to look up at me. "You don't have to hide it from me. I know what he's like."

"And yet you're still here," I said wryly.

She looked up then, those blue eyes burning with unshed tears and so much pain that I wanted to shake her, hard, and demand that she let me take her away. "It's not exactly a choice," she told me bitterly.

Unfortunately, I understood all about the frustration and the agony of wanting someone even when you knew better, so I just nodded.

"I want to leave here. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I can't." The raw pain in her voice was fucking killing me, and I wanted to kill Edward for treating this girl, and every other girl, as if she had no worth—or maybe he just acted in accordance to how they presented themselves. Just once, I thought, I wanted to see some girl make him fucking _work _for it. But no, they all just threw themselves at his feet. Was it any wonder that he treated them like a dime a dozen when they behaved that way?

I didn't know what to tell her. I knew there was a shitload of things that I wanted to say, but I couldn't. So I changed the subject, pretending I didn't see her surreptitiously wipe a tear out of her eye before it could drip down onto her cheek. Rosalie wanted so desperately to maintain the illusion she was tough and she could take on all of Edward's shit, and I wasn't about to let her know that I'd seen through her act from the very beginning.

"They're closing up here soon. I just came back to get some of Edward's stuff."

Rose laughed shakily. "What would he do without you? Who would be there to pick him up after he attacks random British celebrities, or bring him his booze, or find him ladies to fuck?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets so she couldn't see the fists that formed at her opinion of me. Did she think I did this because I _enjoyed _cleaning up after Edward's shit? Dealing with this crap every day was my penance, of a sort, and I did it because I had to do it. And because if I wasn't there to pick up the pieces, I wasn't sure Edward could stay put together. Carlisle's patience was fraying, and I was the only one that Edward even remotely listened to these days.

"That's right," I said evenly. "I'm Edward's security... and his pimp." _Though why he needs one when he has you, I have no idea._

"Speaking of security," I continued, "where's Santiago? He's supposed to be keeping an eye on you." _He shouldn't be letting you stay out like this, torturing yourself with images of what Edward is doing to that blond whore. Or rather, what he's letting that blond whore do to him._

"He went to get the car." Rose uncoiled from the dirty, ripped leather couch and I noticed that she'd slipped off her heels and I winced as she padded across the even dirtier floor in her bare feet.

"That's not very safe," I said almost automatically, before I could stop myself. I wasn't Rose's protector or her boyfriend. I wasn't even her security detail—that was Santiago's job. But I'd said it anyway because I perversely cared whether she was safe or not—an inclination I'd vainly tried to cure myself of.

It didn't help that Edward was beginning to rapidly tire of the statuesque blond beauty, and had decided, without any input from me, that I would be the perfect person to take the heat off him. What I had yet to tell him was that I had no intention of touching her. She was beautiful, famous and so emotionally unhealthy that it was a wonder she was able to function normally. And if she had any idea that the man she claimed to love was trying to foist her off on his security detail, she would totally fall apart.

Though she thought I hated her; I cared too much to ever let her know how little Edward thought of her.

Rose shrugged, clearly caring about as much for her personal safety as she cared for her emotional well-being. Otherwise, she never would have gotten into this spiral of lust and rejection with Edward.

"Is it because I'm famous? Because I'm a Hale?"

I inwardly groaned. Somewhere along the line Rose had gotten the idea that I disliked her. Edward thought it was celebrity awe. What neither of them knew was that it was simple self-preservation. It was hard enough to lust after her; to get involved with such a damaged, vulnerable girl would be akin to throwing myself out of an airplane without a parachute.

I leaned down and started packing up one of Edward's guitars. "You know I don't care about shit like that."

"Exactly." I tensed, feeling that she was close behind me. Way too fucking close. I refused to turn around and let her know that she'd unnerved me. The moment she realized that I was vulnerable at all to her, she'd never leave me alone.

"At first, I thought it was because you're Edward's security and so you see famous people every day, but then I realized you wouldn't care even if you were just a regular guy off the street."

"True," I said, screwing a top on a bottle of Jameson, and trying to mop up some of the spill on the table. I wasn't his fucking maid, but I hated people seeing the chaos that Hurricane Edward left behind.

"So why do you do this then?" This conversation was getting into dangerous territory, and I finally turned around to face her, ready to demand that the interrogation end. But she was so _damn _close, her eyes wide and so, unfuckingbelievably blue that I paused, the words caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, and the corner of her lips tilted into a smile.

"You don't want to tell me, do you?" Flustered, she broke eye contact and twisted one of the rings on her tanned fingers. "I forgot," she said a bit ruefully, "you hate me."

Suddenly it seemed worse that she continue to think that than have this conversation. So I answered, cursing my inability to keep my fucking mouth shut the entire time. "It's a job; it pays the bills."

Her head cocked to the side a little, the fall of straight blond hair shifting, which almost instantaneously set my hands to twitching. I wanted to feel it, to see if it felt as soft in my hands as it looked. I wanted to strip her clothes off and see her breasts peeking through it. Clearing my throat, I reminded my suddenly hard cock that regardless of Edward's "permission," there would be no nakedness happening tonight. Or any night.

"Did you always want to do this?" she asked, that same smile blooming across her features, and I was reminded why everyone liked Rosalie Hale. Even though she was rich as fucking Croesus, she was sweet and kind, and of course, irrevocably emotionally fucked.

"Fuck no." I gave a short laugh. "I actually have half a PhD in history."

Her eyes widened and I could nearly the feel the surprise radiating off her. "Really?"

"It's not that shocking," I grumbled. "Just because a guy has some bulk doesn't mean he's a fucking idiot."

"No, no," she interrupted me. "That isn't what I meant. I guess I just meant . . .if you wanted to do that, how come you're Edward's security guard."

"I already told you, it pays the bills." I would have told just about any other woman off about ten minutes ago, but Rosie's sweet interest was way too fucking tempting to resist. She was like my kryptonite and I was frozen, immobile—too far under her spell to turn away.

"What do you mean, half a PhD? Does that mean you're not Dr. McCarty?"

I shook my head, wondering how I could possibly spin this so I didn't look like such a fucking loser. It was bad enough that I was Emmett McCarty, from the backwoods of Tennessee, and she was Rosalie fucking Hale.

"I didn't finish," I simply said. "Stuff got in the way. I got stupid."

Rose nodded, as if she understood perfectly. As if she could ever _really _understand. She had so much money that she could start and never finish a thousand doctorate degrees, if she wanted.

"And now you're with Edward." She paused, going back to her ring-twisting. "I know," she continued, her voice growing softer. "You don't think I do, but I know. Edward's trying to push me away."

My insides chilled to the temperature of a deep freeze. "You know."

She nodded. "I'd have to be blind not to realize that he's tired of me—maybe he never was even interested enough to grow tired of me now. The details don't matter. But I do know he doesn't want me anymore.."

"He said something?" I asked sharply, beyond irrationally angry that despite my insistence on taking control of the situation so that Rose wouldn't get hurt, Edward had gone and blabbed his fucking mouth.

"No. He didn't have to. You know, everyone just assumes I'm stupid. But I'm actually rather observant."

I was just grateful that she didn't know that he'd practically gifted her to me—tied her up in a ribbon and handed her over like a present on Christmas morning. But Rosalie wasn't a parcel that could be given. She was a free woman, able to make her own choices. _If only she would start making some good ones_.

She was quiet for a moment longer, looking at me questioningly, as if she was waiting for me to respond. As if she was waiting for me to tell her what I thought of the idea.

"Uhhhh," I stammered, not at all how to tell a woman that you wanted her beyond reason, but knew better than to be handed her like she was a fucking slave.

"You don't have to, you know," she said finally, breaking the silence that stretched between us. Her voice had that same bitter edge as before, and in that moment, I hated myself and all the fucking mistakes I'd made. Not just about Rosalie, but about everything. Maybe if my own life wasn't so screwed up, I could endeavor to deserve her, but as it was, I was going to have to pass.

But maybe I could do one thing for her before I sent her away.

"Listen," I said, grabbing her shoulders before she could turn away from me, hide her suddenly damp eyes. "_Listen _to me, Rosalie. You aren't fucking property. You're flesh and blood—a person who needs to make her own choices. You can't just let Edward pass you out like Halloween candy. Stand up for yourself and tell him off. He fucking deserves it."

Rose gaped at me, but the words kept coming—word vomit that had built up inside me for too fucking long.

"There's got to be some self-worth inside you. Something that makes you want to fucking punch him—no, fucking _castrate _him for treating you this way. You're beautiful and kind, and way too good for an asshole like him. You're way too good for me either, by the way, though . . ." I stopped just in time, before I blurted out the hidden litany of how I desired her.

But she knew what I'd been about to say. I saw the realization dawn on her face. "You don't hate me," she whispered, "you hated that I let him . . .I let him. . ." She clearly couldn't put the abuse into words but I was at least grateful that she realized it was total shit. "You. . ."

We stood there for a long moment, staring at each other. "You deserve better." I said it firmly, with much finality as I could muster.

She shook her head slowly, and I could see the thoughts rolling around in her head, like rough diamonds being polished. And then, suddenly, one moment she was a step or two away, and then next her arms were flung around my neck, her body was plastered against mine, and her mouth touched my lips.

I detonated like the fucking atomic bomb. She tasted sweet like strawberry candy and tart like lemons and vodka. I groaned into her mouth as she wrapped herself around me, those long limbs climbing me like a fucking vine. My arms curled around her waist, and she was so unbelievably tiny, I could almost circle it with my hands. Her hair fell between us, brushing against my cheek as we kissed and I couldn't help but groan into her mouth. I had dreamt about this way too many times to stop now that I knew how good it felt.

But sanity returned faster than I'd thought possible, and slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my mouth off hers, taking one last hard nip of her swollen bottom lip. "Rosie," I said and my voice sounded harsh, and thick, like I'd been running a marathon, instead of just kissing a beautiful girl. "We shouldn't be doing this."

She didn't say a word, just looked at me with those unfathomable eyes of hers, and then she simply said, her voice deceptively calm, "That was for you—not for Edward." And then she turned and walked out, leaving me speechless in her wake. Neverfuckingmind about Edward being the hurricane—Rosalie was twice as powerful and had brought me to my knees.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself. I had to admit I'd judged Edward earlier for losing it with that British wanker, but at least he'd had a guy to beat on—or _attempt _to beat on—when he'd needed it. As the hot lava of my temper heated and then boiled over, I didn't have a convenient whipping boy. And so I let my fist fly, punching through the air, and I swore again as it hit the hard concrete of the wall. "Shit. _Fuck_." I yelled now. "Damn it all to hell."

* * *

A long hour later, just as dawn was creeping across the dark sky, I walked down the hallway to my hotel room. Even though I'd been with Edward for almost a year, my body still rebelled at the all-nighters followed by sleeping in until noon. When I'd been at Boston University, I'd loved waking at dawn to go for an early morning jog. Now the only time I ever saw the sun rise was when I hadn't been to bed yet.

Slipping my key card out of the pocket of my jeans, I slid it in the door, turned the handle and froze.

Even though the room was still dark, I could clearly see a mane of blonde hair peeking out from under the covers. _Rosalie_.

I crept farther into the room, slipping my shoes off so that my stocking feet made no sound on the carpeted floor, but I didn't think she would have noticed even if I'd turned the lights on—she was soundly asleep, her body curled around a pillow, her hair spread out like a golden fan on the pillow.

For about half a second I wondered how she'd possibly gotten into my room, but then decided that it was pretty obvious—she was Rosalie Hale, and this was a Hale hotel. She probably hadn't even had to bribe the front desk clerk to give her a keycard. They'd probably done it with a smile on their faces for the daughter of their boss.

Instead, a more important question, I thought as I unzipped my jeans and walked another step closer to the king-sized bed, was _why _Rosalie had chosen to share my bed with me. Was it because of Edward? Or, like the kiss, was it because of me? I told myself that I was being an overly emotional prick, but I couldn't help the tiny surge of wonder at the thought that perhaps Rosalie Hale had, after far too long chasing that ass, decided to chase me instead.

Unlike Edward, I wasn't a famous rock star or pretty or rich. I was just Emmett McCarty, from the backwoods of Tennessee—and though I'd done everything I could to eradicate the twang from my speech, I knew it was still there, hiding in the background, ready to betray me at any moment. I'd grown up in a trailer park and Rose had grown up in a penthouse, and though I was an educated, intelligent man and desperately wanted to believe that the disparity of our two lives meant nothing, I wasn't stupid enough to believe it.

Princesses, I told myself as I carefully peeled back the covers on the empty half of the bed, didn't fall for stable boys.

As if she knew my thoughts and was defying them one fucking act at a time, Rose rolled over almost the instant that I settled my much heavier weight onto the mattress. I froze again, hating the awkwardness that surged through me at the thought she'd woken up and I'd have to find something to say to the woman in my bed. But Rose's eyes, those incredibly ethereal blue windows to a damaged soul, remained closed even as her body turned towards mine. I held my breath as her arms reached for me, and curled around my upper bicep. In her sleep, she sighed, and her lips curled up into a small smile.

It both pleased me inordinately and scared the ever loving shit out of me that I had never _once _seen her smile that way for Edward. Of course, I'd never seen her in bed with him either, but I wanted to believe, perversely, that what seemed to be starting between us had nothing to do with what she'd had with Edward. As I drifted off to sleep, the scent of her drifting through my fading consciousness, I realized that this wasn't altogether a selfish desire—I wanted her to shed all that ugliness that she'd put herself through like a skin, and emerge new and fresh and _happy_.

The next morning I woke up as the sun streamed into the room. As I heard the shower turn on, I realized how close I'd come to letting my guard down for her to creep under. I never, I realized as I turned over, rubbing my sleep-fogged eyes, should have let her stay. I should have woken her up, no matter how peaceful she looked, and insisted that she go to her own damn bed.

Now, we were going to have to face each other, and I was going to have to demand Rosalie tell me why she'd come to my room last night instead of to her own.

The shower turned off, while I was halfway out of bed, and awkwardly I pulled the sheet back up over my boxers. I was 26 fucking years old, but this woman made me feel like a green boy. I was studiously studying the 500 count sheets as the bathroom door opened, and I heard her footsteps on the carpeted floor.

"Good morning," she said, almost shyly, and I looked up, pretending as if was completely surprised to see her in front of me. And Jesus fucking Christ, she was wearing only a bathrobe, her face clean and dewy, her wet hair hanging in damp tangles around her face. Inconveniently, I was instantly aroused. I shifted, moving the blanket over my cock so that she wouldn't notice and pounce—because as far as I knew, that was the main reason she was here.

"Hey."

"So," Rose said, twisting her fingers together. "I assume you were pretty surprised to see me here last night . . . "

I nodded. Surprised would be the understatement of the fucking century. I probably would have been less astonished to see a llama in my bed.

"I hadn't intended to be asleep when you showed up, but it was late and well. . .I was tired, I guess . . ." she trailed off, and I figured she was trying to put off the moment she had to tell me what the fuck she'd been doing in my bed.

"Yeah, about that," I said, breaking in, "I was tired too. And I wasn't expecting to have my bed already occupied."

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, and I instantly regretted my harsh words.

"Don't be," I told her. "It's alright. I didn't mind."

"Really?" I cursed myself as she looked at me like I'd just given her the stars and the moon and the sun. Every time I told myself that I had to keep her at arm's length for her own safety and my sanity, she managed to either sneak in or just plain batter down the wall I kept between us.

A knock on the door interrupted us, and I stiffened. _Please god, _I thought, _please let that not be Edward demanding something._

"I ordered breakfast," she said, that same shy tone creeping into her voice. "To say. . .thanks, I guess. For not kicking me out last night."

I mentally cursed Edward for being the world's biggest douchebag and totally wrecking this sweet girl. Nobody should be that frightened of displeasing someone.

I permitted myself to give her a brilliant, reassuring grin. "That was sweet of you."

"Let me just get the door," Rose said, fumbling with the tie on her robe. Her hands went to her throat, and I could see her pulling the edges of the terrycloth together, attempting to cover up as much of her skin as she could. She was tall, but thin, and the robe already enveloped her. I'd only been able to see a tiny wedge of pale gold skin dusted with freckles, though god knew it had been enough to make me want her back in the bed almost instantly.

I heard muted voices at the door, but decided against making an appearance. For a woman who'd snuck into my bed last night—all in all, a fairly ballsy move—Rose sure seemed shy and awkward around me. Just about as awkward as I seemed around her. Of course, I was used to watching her try to play the tough groupie and fail monumentally at it, though I was the only one who seemed to see through the cracks in her armor. It constantly astounded me that anyone around her actually bought into the fallacy. To me, it seemed so incredibly obvious it was all just an act.

A minute later, Rose rolled a cart filled with covered dishes into the room, and stopped it near the tiny table near the window. "Hungry?" she asked, pulling lids off the plates. The aroma of eggs and bacon and sausage filled the air and I was up and out of bed before I remembered that I was just wearing boxers and a t-shirt. The moment Rose realized it, she blushed, and glanced away.

This, I thought as I sat down across from her, was getting stranger and stranger. How could the girl who I _knew _had fucked Edward Cullen a million different ways suddenly be so shy around me? I chewed a piece of bacon thoughtfully as she poured orange juice and coffee, her robe closed up so tightly that even that tiny wedge of freckled skin had disappeared. I told myself that it was better that I not even be tempted, but I couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of disappointment.

Rose didn't even try to resume the conversation we'd been in the middle of, and I didn't either. I'd decided to wait until an opportune moment to broach the subject again. But right now I could smell food, and my brain went on autopilot.

We were halfway through our mostly silent breakfast—I had offered my observations on the excellent quality of the sausage, and she'd asked me if I preferred scrambled or fried eggs—when suddenly Rose's fork clattered to her fork. I looked up from spreading jam on my English muffin to see her staring at my bruised, battered knuckles in astonishment. Other than a bit of soreness and a twinge of pain whenever I opened or closed my hand, I'd almost totally forgotten about the little wall punching incident from the night before. Of course, remembering that I'd punched the wall dredged up the reason _why _I'd done so, and I shifted in my chair, acutely aware that I was again hard for the woman across the table from me.

"What happened?" she asked, clearly upset and no doubt imagining the worst. "You didn't get in a fight, did you? With Edward?"

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Why did you come to my room last night?"

She paused, in the middle of raising her orange juice to her lips. "That's not fair," she whined, but I thought I could see a ghost of a smile on her face as she sipped from the glass.

I shrugged. "Never said I'd play fair."

She fidgeted with a salt shaker, looking at her plate. "I. . .I thought about what you said, after I left."

"About?" I prompted when she paused for a moment too long.

"About Edward. About how I wasn't an object to be passed from man to man, without a thought to my own preference in the matter."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you sneaking into my room last night is you 'not being passed from man to man?'"

She raised her eyes and met my stare head on. That was the girl I was used to seeing backstage and at parties when other women tried to encroach on what she considered _her _territory—or rather, what she apparently _used _to consider her territory.

"I'm not sure why I kissed you," she said, thoughtfully, and I knew this was the truth—it wasn't some bullshit story that she'd concocted to twist me harder around her little finger—"but I knew that once I kissed you, it _didn't _have anything to do with Edward. I realized that I'd been watching you. And listening to you. And wanting to talk to you. For longer than I'd thought. And I figured," she shrugged, clearly trying for nonchalant, despite that her voice was low and intense and sincere, "it was time I did something about what _I _wanted."

I didn't know what to say in the face of such unvarnished honesty. I wanted to tell her that again that I didn't deserve her, and that I had things I had to do—that I had a life to sort out first and a ton of shit that I had to wade through to do that. But instead of telling her all the reasons why I wished she'd never decided to do something about what she wanted, I told her why I'd punched the wall.

"I punched the wall," I said, changing subjects smoothly, "because I've wanted you for longer than I can possibly remember, and I've done everything I can to stay away because I'm no good for you. And you just made it pretty fucking impossible last night."

Rosalie's mouth formed an "O" of surprise. "Even when I was slumming it with Edward?"

I grimaced. "Well, I hate to break it to you but you're still kind of slumming it with him."

She looked confused. "I don't understand. I'm not with _him_ right now; I'm with _you_."

"Maybe," I said reasonably, though I was already telling myself that I was a total fucking idiot, "but not exactly. Have you said anything to Edward?"

"Of course not," she said, frowning. "When would I have had time to do that?"

I forced myself to take a drink of coffee. "That's my point exactly. You _are _going from Edward to me, almost as if you were passed off. But you're passing yourself off."

I could see my words hitting her like bombs, and I hated that I believed she deserved the truth. I wanted to lie and tell her that I wanted her right now, screw if she was almost warm from Edward's bed. But I knew better—and I knew both of us deserved better than that.

"I see," she said, her voice low and hurt. "You don't want me after all. You don't want his seconds."

"No," I said patiently. "I do want you. I just want you enough to wait until you can put this poisonous, ugly thing with Edward behind you first."

Rose twisted her hands in her lap, then looked up at me, her eyes so blue they took my breath away. Even with in a bathrobe at least two sizes too big, no makeup, and her hair hanging in limp, almost-dry tendrils around her face, she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. And I was effectively turning her down. _It's for the best, _I told myself. _You have an obligation._

"Okay," she said. "I can do that. Give me a few weeks."

"Sure." I smiled warmly at her, except the warmth didn't reach my heart. I was pretty damn sure that a few weeks wouldn't cut it. I wasn't even sure she could honestly tell Edward off in a few years. But a guy could hope, right?

"Finish your breakfast," she said with mock sternness. "And I'm going to ring for some ice for your hand. It must hurt like a bitch."

I flexed it absentmindedly as she rose and went to the phone on the desk. "It could be worse," I observed. "Things could always be worse."


	5. Divorce

**AN: Thanks for all your lovely reviews (and also to everyone who read or favorited or alerted). I'm really enjoying your reactions to this--and looking forward to the moment when what you're expecting is flipped head over heels :)**

**Playlist of the Athair concert is up on my profile. Check it out if you want to hear the songs that Edward "sings." I've also added songs for chapters 3 & 4 to the story playlist.**

**As always, thanks to my awesomesauce beta, JosieSwan. This would not be the same story without her endless encouragement or her stories about alpacas that always make me laugh.**

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**Bella**

"Please, _please _tell me that you're not _still_ sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself," Alice said from the doorway. I looked up to see her standing, with her hands on her hips, her forehead puckered in concern.

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I corrected, casually shutting my laptop so she couldn't see what I'd been working—or not working—on while she'd been at the fabric store. "I'm writing. You know, preventing us from working street corners."

"Okay, so not feeling sorry for yourself. How about pouting? Are you done with that too?"

"I'm not pouting either," I ground out. "Again—trying to prevent the homeless situation."

"And how's that going?" Alice asked, boosting her small body onto the bed next to me. I was glad I'd closed the laptop before she'd come in here because I knew she wanted to sneak a peak at what I was working on, and I had no intention of telling her I hadn't been writing—or how bad my writer's block really was.

"Not well, obviously," Alice said when I didn't reply, smiling way too brightly for someone who's future could very possibly include foraging for cans in dumpsters.

"It's going okay," I insisted, trying not to get defensive and failing. "I have a few ideas." That was a total lie, but I didn't want to tell Alice that I had no idea what to do with _Sound & the City_to make it magically better and therefore more attractive to advertisers.

"Did you find the buttons you needed?" I asked, changing the subject and refocusing on the one project we had going that could potentially make us some money. I'd been trying to push Alice to work faster in the hopes that we could maybe get some of the clothes done before we no longer had an apartment to manufacture them in, but so far, I hadn't been successful. Alice had insisted, every time I'd tried to communicate the need for speed, that she couldn't be rushed. Quality, she'd say like a mantra, should never be compromised.

I wanted to tell her that there wasn't exactly much of a choice here, because the chance that I'd manage to come up with a big advertiser for my blog was slim to none. I'd stayed up late, studying my stats, and searching for an online advertiser that wouldn't mind such a tiny, niche audience. The problem, I'd discovered, wasn't so much the _niche_part, as the _tiny_part.

"I did," Alice said, her whole face lighting up in excitement. "These jackets are going to be _brilliant_." I nodded absentmindedly, thinking the whole while that we were both frauds.

I played at being a blogger, but nobody gave a shit about what I wrote or what I thought. Alice wanted to design for a living, but instead all she did was copy other designers' clothes. Who'd have ever thought, I mused dejectedly, that we'd both be such fucking failures? I remembered a time, not so far in the past, when we'd been envied and admired by our fellow university students for having so much ambition and potential. If only they could see us now, I thought wryly, there wouldn't be a single damn thing to be jealous of.

Alice rambled on about her buttons, and I slid off the bed, setting my laptop on the bedside table. "You need any help?" I asked, deciding that maybe she hadn't been half wrong. I _had _been pouting, a little. All this introspection had dredged up a lot of feelings that I hadn't really dealt with all that well the first go around—and it appeared that the second rotation was going to send me into yet another funk.

Fuck this. I needed to snap out of it.

She stopped, slid me a sideways glance, and then smiled especially brightly. "You _are _going to stop pouting then."

I wanted to glare at her, but I didn't have the heart. After all, she'd been right. "Yes," I conceded. "I'm going to. As long as you can keep my hands and mind busy. I need some serious distraction."

I hoped for half a second that Alice wouldn't ask what I needed the distraction from, but as usual, she was too eager to get some help that she slid right over that part and clutched onto my offer with both hands.

"And I've got lots of mind _and_ hand numbing work to be done," Alice said, way too cheerfully.

I followed her into the living room, and waited as she sorted through her purchases on the table. I hadn't been able to sew a stitch before meeting Alice in college, but I'd picked up a few rudimentary sewing skills out of necessity. We hadn't been able to hire anyone to help Alice, because we couldn't afford to, and so I'd had to help out with some of the more basic sewing. Now I could sew a halfway decent hem and also could attach buttons like a master.

And today it was buttons, I saw with a halfhearted grimace, as Alice pulled card after card of them out of a plastic bag. Well, I thought as I settled down on the couch with a pincushion, a pile of half-finished jackets, and the many, many buttons, I _had_asked for something mind-numbing to do. And maybe these jackets would sell fast and we could eat for the next two weeks.

I was halfway through the third jacket when Alice shrieked. I glanced up, worried, and saw her standing in front of the iPod dock we had bought to listen to music while we worked.

Shit. I'd erased every single bit of evidence except for the most obvious. . .

"What the _hell _is this?" Alice demanded, turning to me, her face turning an unnatural shade of puce. "What the fucking hell?"

Alice rarely swore, and I didn't think I had ever heard her use the word fuck before now, but I suddenly too caught up in why she was so angry to really appreciate hearing my best friend say one of my favorite words for the first time. I knew what she was angry about and well, I couldn't say I blamed her.

"Sorry," I said, stumbling over my feet and my words, the coat I'd been working on sliding to the floor in my haste to make it over to the dock. "I'll change it. I . . .I. .."

"I cannot believe," Alice ranted, ignoring everything I'd just tried to say, "that you would even _dream _of listening to that shit ever again. Not after the last time."

I blushed, and fumbled with the dial. "I'll turn it off," I said apologetically. "I just. . .I thought maybe it would help inspire me." That was mostly a lie; I was sure that there was a positive correlation between Athair and my own ability to write great blogs, but that hadn't been the only reason I'd given in and turned it on.

"Bella, you _swore _to me that you'd gotten rid of it. I watched you smash the CD myself."

I looked at the ground and wished it would swallow me up. Alice was my best friend, and she knew almost every single thing about me—how could she not? We lived together, worked together, played together. We spent nearly 24 hours a day together. And yet, I'd managed to hold this one measly, silly secret tight to my chest.

"There's a digital copy on my iPod," I said lamely, stating the obvious. "I couldn't quite. . .not exactly. . .get rid of it completely." I felt as if Alice had discovered my secret drug stash, but instead, she'd only discovered a spare copy of the worst album in the entire universe. I'd kept it, for reasons that I didn't like to examine too closely, because I hadn't been able to bear tossing it, no matter how godawful it was.

Instead, I'd kept it and continued to glory in the badness. Today I'd limited myself to only half of the songs and then had gone back to my laptop, determined to write the second, and even more successful, version of Entry #457.

That hadn't exactly happened. Actually, the number of words I'd written had totaled a whopping 0.

"Why the hell not?" Alice asked archly. "I can't believe you could actually force yourself to listen to this toxic waste a second time. Oh wait," she added, a saccharine sarcasm creeping into her tone, "you _already did_. And not just twice. You listened to it for _three fucking days straight."_

I winced.

"I swear to god, Bella. I have a lot of patience—truckloads, in fact. But I do not want to listen to Athair's disastrous fifth album ever again. This is a deal breaker."

"You don't have to," I protested, snatching my iPod out of the dock before it could go the way of the CD copy. "I only listened to it once, for inspiration." _Lie._ "I won't ever do it again." _Another lie_. Alice would have my head if she knew how much I really listened to it.

Alice raised her eyes skyward, clearly searching for divine inspiration. "I don't care if I have to listen to it. I do care that you are fucking _crazy_enough to keep listening to it even after declaring to the entire universe that you thought it was the worst thing you'd ever heard. You really need help, and not just because Renee's fucked you up."

That was now four fucks. A new record for Alice. I almost said so, but the murderous expression on her face stopped me.

"That's it. You need an Athair intervention."

"What?" I stammered.

"An Athair intervention," Alice said, with more finality. "I wouldn't be so worried if you'd gone off to be one of his whores, but this, Bella, is _really_worrisome."

"Listening to an album?" I asked incredulously.

"It's more than that and you know it. This is the worst fucking music in the whole goddamn universe, and you are listening to it out of personal choice."

_Five_ _fucks. _I decided that if we hit double digits, I should be really worried that she'd call up A&E.

"It was just a weak moment. I've been thinking about #457 more frequently and well. . .trying to fight the writer's block and I just. . .I wanted to know if it was really as bad as I remembered it, or maybe I'd just had a rage blackout." Another lie. I remembered just how bad it was, because I never let myself forget.

Alice rolled her eyes. "That's why you listened to it for _seventy two hours straight_ before."

I shook my head. "That's just what I told you. I actually. . ." I wondered if I could actually admit to Alice that I'd only listened to it for three days because I couldn't bear the thought that Edward Cullen had made the album. "I. . .um. . ." My voice trailed off.

Nope. Still couldn't tell her, and that had more to do with her black belt in tae kwon do than the threat of an intervention.

"Tell me, Bella," Alice growled.

"Well. Uh. I just _wanted_it to magically change," I confessed. "I can't explain why. I just kept thinking that maybe if I listened to it one more time, it would be different. Better."

"And it wasn't," Alice said flatly. "I think we can even hypothesize that it got _worse_upon repeated listening."

I wanted so badly to disagree with her. I wanted to argue that the awfulness was almost unique, but I knew that I'd be lying to her and to myself. The album was still bad. Edward Cullen had still failed me.

So I nodded, deciding instead that Edward hadn't failed me—he'd failed himself.

I'd spent my whole life refusing to give up on people, and I couldn't give up on Edward, especially now. There had to be redemption for him. The same way that I wanted to believe that I could write something even more popular than #457 without being either insulting or demeaning.

"They're playing at the House of Blues tonight. Athair is." The words, buoyed by all my everlasting hope in Edward's ability to turn his career around, tumbled out before I could stop them. "I bought a ticket."

"You're going?" she exclaimed. "To the Athair concert?"

I nodded sharply, decisively. "I need to do this." Alice just didn't need to know why, I decided. She'd made her mind up about Athair with the fifth album. Despite #457, I hadn't quite yet. I needed to go tonight and let the power of Edward and his music wash over me and remind me why he'd spent so many years keeping me in one piece.

She looked rather skeptical, so I continued, each word convincing me I was doing the right thing. "When I wrote #457, I thought I was dumping Edward Cullen. But dumping wasn't good enough. He was still in me, no matter what I tried to do to get him out. I couldn't move on with the blog or with anything really, because he was inside, holding me back. So I've got to go get rid of him completely." Ha, like _that _was ever going to happen. But then, I didn't need to believe it, only Alice.

Alice still looked skeptical. "And going to the concert is going to help you get rid of him?"

"I dumped him, but I need more. What I _really_ need to do is divorce his ass, and to do that, I have to say goodbye. Once and for all."

A frown appeared between Alice's eyebrows, and she stared critically at me for a long second. Then, abruptly, she giggled. "Too bad he doesn't know he's getting divorced. I'd pay good money for that egotistical ass to know it."

"Believe me, I wish there was a way." _Lie._

I also knew if I was ever faced with Edward Cullen in the flesh, we probably wouldn't be talking. He wasn't exactly renowned for his conversational skills. The douchebag, hell-on-wheels side of Edward wasn't something I admired, but I was willing to put up with it as long as he was able to create music that had got me through all kinds of shit.

"So does that mean that you'll be deleting 'Aiming to Misbehave' from your iPod?" Alice asked with a smirk as I went back to the couch and picked up the coat I'd dropped in my haste.

_Hell no_. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good." Satisfied, Alice turned back to her sewing and I threaded another needle, sure that I'd managed to deflect every question I didn't want to deal with. I didn't want to explain to Alice that no matter how many #457's I wrote, I'd never be able to quit Athair.

I hadn't dumped Edward Cullen at all; in fact, it was becoming rather obvious that the opposite was true. I was going to be stuck with him for life.

* * *

I sewed all afternoon and then ate a Cup of Noodles for dinner, hating that after all this time I was back to eating college food. Alice informed me that tomorrow perhaps we could splurge on a box of macaroni and cheese. I wanted to laugh at this, but it was too damn sad.

Alice didn't really look up from her pattern when I told her I was leaving. She just grunted, and I assumed this was because 1) she was still pissed about the whole Athair thing 2) she was so lost in concentration she didn't even realize I'd spoken.

I zipped up my gray hoody against the unseasonably chilly April air as I got off the T at Kenmore, walking to Lansdowne street. The area around Fenway was quiet, as the Sox were away this week. There was quite a crowd around the House of Blues, though, and I remembered a time when Athair could have sold out the Orpheum—that had been before "Aiming to Misbehave," though, and now it appeared there were still tickets available even at the smaller venue, as I saw quite a line at the box office.

I sat at the bar throughout the opening band, sipping on a Harp. Every other Athair concert—really, _every_concert I'd gone to for the last ten years—had always been about the blog. I'd held myself aloof, forcing myself to glean every single objective detail I could from the performances. Tonight, I decided, was just going to be about me and Athair, and our love affair. I didn't want to listen to some crappy, half-assed opening band; I wanted to listen to Athair.

So I waited until the lights went on between sets and then made my way to the venue itself. The wood of the floor had soaked in sweat and blood and alcohol and smelled so wonderful I wanted to bathe in it. I'd always stayed towards the back, imagining that keeping myself apart from the seething mass of dancing fans made this more of a job and less of an experience I enjoyed. Except, I realized now, pushing my way towards the front of the stage, almost glorifying in the sweaty claustrophobic feeling of way too many people packed closely together, I'd forgotten _why_I'd chosen this as my career. I'd initially started writing about music because I loved it, so there was no fucking reason why I shouldn't enjoy myself.

A shot of adrenaline pumped into my system when the lights dimmed, and I pushed people right back as they jostled me, jockeying for a better position in the pit.

As I got shoved rather roughly, I remembered why I always stood in the back, and for half a second, I almost considered giving up this hard-won spot. It wasn't worth the bruises, I thought briefly, but then before I could move, screams erupted around me and I heard the first hypnotic strums of the guitar that had helped to block so much of the shit from my childhood.

I didn't recognize the chords, but I would still know Edward Cullen's distinctive guitar anywhere. I'd spent hundreds of hours listening to his music, and as the tempo grew, I felt pretty safe in saying that this wasn't one of Athair's songs that I'd ever heard. Still, I was temporarily frozen, mesmerized by the grind of his guitar. I hadn't' realized there was new music since the 5th album—nobody had heard anything new, but maybe it was a cover.

A single spotlight shone down on a bowed head, the light reflecting off Edward Cullen's copper hair. His fingers gracefully and perfectly picked out the riffs, flawlessly segueing from one to the next. The moment he started to sing, I laughed out loud, my hands reaching up, almost as if I could touch the notes as they cascaded out of his mouth.

I'd know this song anywhere, though I'd never heard him perform it before, or even mention that this particular band was an influence of his. But since this was Edward Cullen, singing a song _by _Boston _in _Boston made perfect, logical sense.

Someone elbowed me hard in the stomach, and if I wasn't so caught up in the music the pain probably would have forced me to the fetal position, but I sang the words through my grimacing mouth. I was close enough that I could pick out the hairs on his arm as he strummed, the red tones catching the flashing lights above the stage. I'd always thought Edward Cullen was handsome, but I had never really _thought _about how beautiful he really was. My focus had been on his music, on the beauty he could coax out of a guitar with those long, elegant tapered fingers. But tonight, my mouth went dry at the sight of him, arm muscles clenched as he fluidly transitioned into a complicated solo, his hands moving so quickly that they seemed to blur in front of me.

I'd barely caught my breath as the first song ended, before they'd flowed into the next, a rousing punk anthem that was one of my all-time favorites. I sang along with Edward, feeling more than once as if it were just the two of us in the concert venue—despite that I drenched in other people's sweat and bodily fluids and that I was sure my body would be riddled with bruises tomorrow. But I did what I'd never before imagined I'd do: I fought back, elbowing and kicking and pushing with the best of them. I'd never been at the front before, and though it was rough, it was fucking exhilarating to be so close to him.

The show moved along at a rapid pace. Edward said almost nothing in between each song, instead focusing on what he did best—playing music. There were no on-stage shenanigans, and much to my relief, they completely omitted any mention of "Aiming to Misbehave." It was as if it never existed.

Athair played several covers though, including their famous version of "Baba O'Riley" by the Who. The Who had been one of Charlie's favorite bands, and the first time I'd heard Edward's version, I'd cried. I cried tonight too, the tears mixing with the sweat and strands of my hair that fell around my face. He tackled the difficult song as if he were taking a walk in the park—with no fear and so much confidence that my heart soared. He was _back, _I told myself. But it was different than that. It was as if he'd never left, as if the fifth album was some utterly bizarre, random departure that meant nothing in the face of all his other brilliant accomplishments.

During the one encore, they played "Tessie," their tribute to the Red Sox. I didn't quite get the obsession with baseball that the city of Boston had, but I loved the song, so I sang along as if I was just as much a member of the Nation as the next Bostonian. I'd tried following games since I knew that Edward was an avid fan, but I hadn't ever been able to get into it. I told myself that loving "Tessie" was good enough; expecting myself to actually _like _baseball was probably taking it a step too far.

At one point, during the fourth or fifth song—by then I'd lost count, one melody flowing into the next, making me feel drunk—he'd even leaned down into the crowd, singing almost directly to me. But I while I might have felt the insane rush of the music flowing through me, I wasn't stupid. He might be miming at singing to me, but his eyes, that brilliant, intelligent green, were cloudy and unfocused. He hadn't even seen me. I told myself later, as I walked home, my sweaty t-shirt sticking to me in the cool evening air, that it wasn't fair of me to feel that tiny twinge of disappointment.

I was just another girl, in just another audience. There was no reason for him to look at me—or look _for _me. Despite that, I felt incredibly exhilarated and my faith in Edward's musical genius had never been stronger. Faith, I told myself as I let myself into the silent apartment, was stronger once it had been tested.

And that was when I knew what I had to do.

* * *

Alice stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, blurry-eyed and searching for a caffeine hit. I was sitting on her favorite perch on the counter and she jerked in surprised as she spotted me grinning at her.

"You look. . ._happy_. . ." Alice grumbled blearily, pushing a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "Way too happy for it to be morning, anyway."

I waited until she'd poured a huge mug of coffee, stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar but no cream, and had taken her first sip before I spoke. I knew Alice far too well to attempt to talk to her before her morning caffeine fix.

"You're _finally _up," I said excitedly. "I have big news."

Alice ignored me. "And you're up _early_. What time did you get in anyway?"

"Me?" I shrugged. "I didn't um. . . .actually go to bed."

Alice's jaw dropped a little. "You didn't go to bed?"

I shook my head as I jumped lightly down from the counter. "Nope. I was too excited to sleep. I came up with an absolutely fucking brilliant plan after the concert."

Alice looked instantly suspicious, and I couldn't say I blamed her. I didn't have a great track record with absolutely fucking brilliant plans. She tapped her fingernail against the ceramic of her mug and eyed me a bit nervously. "And what is this plan?"

I took a deep breath and pushed a piece of paper across the counter to her—I'd bought us more concert tickets. "You're going with me tonight. To Athair."

Alice's face instantly set into hard lines of anger. "Athair? _Why? _And I might ask you why you're wasting our precious money on _more _concert tickets when you already went to the show last night?"

"The hope is that it'll help generate a lot of interest for the blog. I've decided what I want to do—no, what I _need _to do." I took a deep breath. "I'm going to write a #457 Part 2. I just need to talk to Edward Cullen first. Tonight. And you're going to help me."


	6. Rosalie Snaps

**AN: I said that Edward was going to be redeemed--in fact, I do believe I promised. I hold true to that, though this isn't going to exactly change your mind. Trust, bbs, trust! And yes, there is a point to the Emmett/Rosalie, for those of you that are concerned. This is VERY much an Edward/Bella story.**

**Playlist is updated on my profile. One of the songs isn't on the site, so I linked to a youtube video instead. Please listen to it anyway--to me it perfectly sums up where Edward is mentally.**

**Thank you for all the marvelous alerts and favorites and reviews! And also to my kickass beta, JosieSwan.**

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**Edward**

I was really fucking pissed off.

I hadn't been; actually, I'd been in a really great mood after the first Boston show. I loved playing here, in my hometown, and even more, I loved the reception I always got. The fans here seemed to understand that the fifth album had been just a random, booze-induced aberration, unlike in some other cities where I felt as if I was constantly proving I was still relevant and still talented.

Of course I was, I was Edward Cullen, lead singer of Athair. I'd pretty much fucking invented both "relevant" _and _"talented."

Tonight had been no exception. I'd exited the stage after "Tessie," feeling wrung out and riding an adrenaline high, only to discover that everyone around me was exceptionally pissy.

I ran into Emmett first. I'd stumbled off to a couch in the green room backstage, knowing I should get my lazy ass to the shower to wash off the sweat and the grime, but I was too damn mellow to move. I felt hollowed out by the music, almost like a really good bout of gritty, angry sex, until I'd been nothing except the vessel for the notes and the words. I reached for a fresh Guinness sitting on the table next to the couch and took a large swallow.

Emmett opened the door without knocking and glared at me, as if he was daring me to complain. We had ground rules, Emmett and I, and one of them was that he always knocked on the door first. Not that I cared much if he saw me fucking some random groupie, but he usually got all awkward and embarrassed, especially if the woman he caught me with was Rosalie, so we'd invented the "knock first" rule. There weren't many other ground rules, mainly because I hated being fenced in by anything, but because Emmett was so chill, I was willing to agree to at least this one.

But he hadn't knocked tonight, and as I watched him stride into the room, I knew he was pissed about something. I wondered for a brief moment if his mood had anything to do with me, and decided against it. I'd been on my better behavior tonight—no groupies before the show and only a beer or two to grease me up—so it seemed strange that something I'd done had set him off.

"Dude, what the fuck?" I said, still good naturedly, as he jerkily set down an empty guitar case. "You seem worked up."

"No," he snapped. "Not worked up. Just busy."

"Show's over, no need to be stressed about anything."

Of course, I had no real comprehension of what Emmett's job entailed, other than getting me blondes and booze and making sure I didn't get shot by some limey asshole. It was entirely possible that his job was more difficult after the show than before it, but I was in such a good mood that I didn't want any of his angsty shit messing me up.

Emmett said nothing, only clamped his lips together, as if he were afraid the anger might escape out of them.

I might have been clever, but I wasn't smart, so I needled him a bit more. It was kind of what I did and he should have been used to it by now. "You're ruining my buzz," I told him, "go the fuck away and leave me alone if you can't keep your panties untwisted."

His eyes narrowed at me then, and I wondered almost idly, not really all that concerned for my own personal safety—because when had I ever been concerned for my personal safety?—if I had pushed him too far. Usually Emmett had a much, much higher tolerance level for my idiocy. Being my security detail and general gofer, he had to, or else he wouldn't have lasted a whole day, nevermind a whole year.

But before I could hear what Emmett was about to snap back at me, the door opened unannounced again, and in walked Rosalie.

I hadn't seen her in a whole week, and while that particular fact might be really welcome, I also belatedly remembered my ridiculous promise to fuck her in Boston. We were now in Boston. And she still had that hard look about her that made me worried she'd bite my dick off.

In fact, I decided, watching her walk in from my perch on the couch, she looked really determined. Not in her usual, _please fuck me because I'm desperate _way, but kind of an edgy determination. Personally, I thought Emmett was full of shit because Rose was the easiest girl on the planet to read. She always went all soft and buttery and sweet whenever she wanted anything and when you didn't give it to her, she got bitter and nasty and vindictive. And whiny. God, how could I forget about the whining? I rolled my eyes at only the thought. I should get some sort of fucking medal for having to put up with her shit for so god damned long.

And when Rosie was mad, it was always plain as fucking day. Like right now. She stalked over, her blue eyes trying to burn a hole in me. It would have worked alarmingly well except that I could give a shit if she was angry. So I just looked at her right back, feeling no shame at all about how little I cared. After all, I'd never promised her I would.

"Get up," she snapped at me. "I want to talk to you, and I can't do it when you're lounging that way, as if you aren't listening to a word I'm saying."

Well that was true enough—I _wasn't _listening to a word she was saying. So I stayed sitting, eyeing her with more than a little trepidation. I'd thought when I hadn't heard from Rosalie in the last week that Emmett had started to work some of his magic, but apparently he hadn't at all. More of my good mood evaporated and I felt a twinge of annoyance at Emmett for not taking care of this shit before it got out of control.

"Get up, you fucker," Rose said, voice rising in pitch and in volume. Great. A scene. How novel.

I, however, had no intention of starting or finishing anything—except maybe this whole "relationship."

Rosie clearly had other plans though, because she broke the number one cardinal rule of Edward Loves Groupies and fucking grabbed me, wrapping those blood red talons of hers around my upper arm and jerking me to my feet. Guinness splashed on my shirt and on the floor as the half-full glass jostled in my hand.

"What. The. Fuck." I shook her hand free of my arm and just plain fucking glared at her. How dare she fucking touch me that way? I wasn't some sort of slave to be manhandled. If anyone was doing the manhandling it was me, god damnit, and it was the against a wall or on a table, shrieking sex kind of manhandling.

She retreated a little, not physically, but I could see the vulnerability peeking through her eyes now, and I pounced on it, dragging it back out, displaying it for the whole room to see. I wanted to put her back in her god damn place. This ended when I said it did, and while I'd been putting it off for awhile, I knew it was long past time I told her it was over.

Except that she beat me to it.

Those same red tipped fingers flashed out, and I saw the intention in her eyes a split second before her hand connected with my cheek, but it was too late for me to do anything except gape as my ears rung with the force of the blow. Emmett there almost instantly, and while I expected him to have Rose on the floor in a chokehold, fucking cuffing her, he didn't. Instead, he looked hesitant . . .almost. . .concerned. Well. _Fuck_. He was pussy-whipped _already. _

"You're a self-centered, conceited douchebag of a man," Rose sneered, her anger twisting her face into an ugly snarl, but her blue eyes—the one part of her face I'd always liked, besides her mouth wrapped around my cock—shone not with tears of a woman weeping for the man she loved, but with vindication.

Whoops.

I kind of expected her to stop there. After all, that pronouncement pretty much summed it up, didn't it? Except that she kept going. I forced my hand _not _to cradle my face, which felt like it might actually be bruising, and stood with increasing shock as Rosie read me the worst riot act of my life.

"You're spoiled. Selfish—"

"Those mean the same things, by the way. As does self-centered," I interrupted smoothly, my tone even and calm. Inside, however, I was raging. I just didn't want her to fucking know just how angry I was. Let her think that I didn't care—because I _didn't._

I caught her wrists in my hands about half a second before her claws tore into my face. "Careful," I hissed as she struggled in my grasp. "You're beginning to really _piss _me off. If you wanted me to fuck you a week ago, you should have said so. You didn't need to fucking assault me."

Rose finally managed to jerk her hands away from mine and she glared. "I don't want you to ever fucking touch me again. I feel like I'm going to get a disease just from looking at your washed up, sorry ass. You think that nobody remembers 'Aimin' to Misbehave' but we all do. Every single fucking one of us. And sometimes we're so ashamed and _downright fucking embarrassed _that you put out that garbage that we feel sorry for you. You're _pathetic_."

I flinched and I hated the way her eyes narrowed at the evidence of my own internal nuclear reactor.

"I am not fucking pathetic," I almost yelled, hating my own loss of control. Usually, I didn't give a shit if I lost my temper, but I didn't want Rose to know that some of her bombs had hit home and I was now pissed as fuck. "What's pathetic is you crawling around me in the fucking slums, begging for me to fuck you like an animal. _That's _pathetic."

This time Rose flinched, and I felt like cheering. Easy to dish out, but harder to take, I thought to myself; I could so own her, if I decided to waste my time.

"Emmett," I barked, not even bothering to take my eyes off Rose's reddening face. "Leave the fucking room so I can fucking dismantle this bitch. I think she needs a good hard angry fuck."

She paled under her tan and backed away one step. "No. Don't go." Craning her neck to find him, Rose softened just the tiniest bit when her eyes met his, and then I fucking knew. I wasn't passing Rose along—she was fucking trashing me for Muscle Boy. My temper, already flaming, went apocalyptic.

"Emmett, leave this damn room," I said softly with a deadly calm. "Princess and I have to have a little chat, and I don't want your precious ladylike sensibilities to get bruised."

He shrugged just a little—entirely for Rosalie's benefit, apologizing no doubt so that she'd still fuck his brains out later—and the door shut behind him.

"Damn you to the lowest circle of hell," Rosie snarled. "I can't figure out what I ever saw in you."

I decided it was time to be really honest. "Your own pitiful self-esteem, going down the toilet, I think. Oh wait, I think that's actually right now. As you let yourself be passed from one man to another, like a fucking toy."

She was just about ready to turn away after her last salvo, and she stopped dead in her tracks at my words. "What?" she gasped a little. Finally, I'd hit home. "_What_?"

"You heard me. Being passed from me to Emmett. That's pretty much as low as any woman can get, I think. You can't even fuck the A-list anymore, baby, you've got to fuck the A-list's help."

She slapped me again, the sharp crack of her hand on my flesh ringing in the air. For a split second, I thought about decking her back, but I'd never hit a woman who didn't want it and I wasn't about to start now. There were some levels even I wouldn't stoop to.

So I let her go. Let her slam the door behind me. And only after she was gone did I pull the ravaged, tattered edges of my self-control around me and take a deep breath. With shaking hands, I reached for the bottle of Bushmills that was conveniently sitting on a nearby table. I unscrewed the lid and took a long, long gulp. Fire rushed down my throat, and I exhaled.

Usually after a bout like that, all I wanted was some good old-fashioned fucking—even if it wasn't with the girl I'd just finished screaming at. But tonight, I felt vaguely unsettled. I took another drink of whiskey and tried to figure out why I felt so god damned weird.

Maybe, I thought, after another half a dozen long drinks, it had everything to do with the fact Rosalie Hale had been the very first woman to ever ditch me. No woman ever said enough until I said it first. They wouldn't fucking dare. But she had. . .

I leaned back on the couch, my head hitting the wall and closed my eyes. The Princess would regret exchanging the Gucci for the fake Prada. It was the way she was constructed. And when she came crawling back, I'd shove her back down into the gutter before throwing her away, like I should have done a long time ago. The way I _always _did.

**Emmett**

I didn't know what to feel about what Rosalie had just done. On one hand, I'd been terrified for her—both emotionally and physically. I liked to think that Edward was a good guy under all his shit (and once in a while he even gave me a reason to), and that he wouldn't ever raise a hand to a woman, even if she'd hit him first. However, I would have much rather tested that theory on a woman that wasn't Rosalie. I was way too caught up in her to think or act rationally if she'd been in any real danger. I just hoped that she didn't know how I felt, because whatever lay between us had already gone too far already. I knew had to pull back before she accidentally got caught in the crossfire, but actually doing it seemed to defeat me.

As for me, I was used to not getting what I wanted. I would live without her—somehow. After all, I'd learned long ago that you didn't really need a complete and undamaged heart to survive. Otherwise, I would never have lived this long.

But damn, it had been so fucking amazing watching her go toe to toe with Edward, that conceited and entitled asshole. I'd been wishing someone would just lay into him for awhile now, especially one of the women he treated like doormats, but the fact that it'd been Rose was so much better than even I could've imagined.

I'd been tied up right after leaving the green room, and hadn't had a free moment to even find her to talk to her, but I was dying to—though I wasn't entirely sure if it was because I wanted to lay into her for being crazy or kiss her. Rose, I decided as I oversaw the roadies packing up Athair's equipment, was a surprisingly complex woman who often made you want to do both at the exact same moment.

To my surprise, when I'd run into Edward, he hadn't wanted to discuss the fight with Rose. When I'd attempted to bring it up, he'd just brushed me off with a wave of his hand. Truthfully, I don't think he was even seeing anything beyond the bottom of the whiskey bottle. He was in one of his angsty funks—the kind where he drank hard and fast and blacked out almost on purpose—though I was hesitant to believe that Rose had anything to do with his black mood. Women never got to Edward, and I'd known that he hadn't cared about her at all.

I was right, and Edward passed out in his hotel room uncharacteristically early, though after drinking that much booze, I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised he'd nearly toppled over onto his bed. I'd left a bottle of water and a trio of advil next to the bed, and I hoped when I got him the next morning he'd be less antagonistic.

I searched for Rose at the venue after Edward fell asleep, even though I knew it was a bad idea to see her right now. I was pretty sure she'd told off Edward to please me, and while I was thrilled she'd finally taken a stand with him and told him what a user he was, I was afraid of what she expected.

I was afraid she'd assume she was free to start something with me and then I'd have to turn her down.

Nobody had seen her though, and I ended up trudging back to the hotel room about 1 AM, sick and worried. For half an instant, I'd almost considered checking Edward's hotel room to make sure she hadn't fallen off the wagon so soon, but I decided against it. If she was back with him, I decided I didn't want to know. Besides, despite his incessant bragging, I was pretty damn sure that even Don fucking Juan couldn't have gotten it up with the amount of whiskey that Edward had drunk tonight.

I slid my key card through the door and felt the sense of déjà vu hit me like a sledgehammer as I walked into my room.

Rosalie was in my bed again—but this time she was awake and there was no awkwardness. There was only a hard knot of sexual awareness that settled low in my belly. I wanted her so damn bad, and there was nothing and nobody that would stop me from taking her.

Nothing except a sinking feeling that I couldn't damn her by association.

You're insane, you know," I told her. I stripped off my jacket and stood facing her.

She only laughed—and the tinge of hysteria had me at her side almost instantly. _Great, _I harangued myself, _way to show her that you don't care._

"Are you alright?" I asked cautiously. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Rose shook her head. "No. I'm fine. Actually , I'm more than fine. I'm free, for the first time in a very, very long time."

"You didn't see him for _that _long," I reasoned. And she hadn't. Six months maybe, at the most.

She shrugged and gave me that look that said _I'm going to pretend like this is no big deal, but I'd like very much if you stuck around after I told you_. "Edward was just the last in a long line of guys that weren't very good for me." Rose's shoulders slumped and I wanted so desperately to climb into the bed and comfort her the way she deserved to be comforted, but I was terrified that if me and her ended up in that close a proximity, a whole lot more than just comforting would happen.

I wondered too if she honestly expected me to be surprised. The way she'd clung to Edward with so much tenacity had told me everything I needed to know about her own past history. Rosalie wasn't new to being treated this way—it had happened before. "I know," I told her, deciding that I'd better be honest here. "You haven't made great choices. But then neither have I, so I'm not exactly the best candidate to pass judgment on you."

A smile lit up her beautiful face, the blue eyes glowing with affection and sympathy and damnit all to hell, _desire_. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? A woman that half the male population of the world would kill to have in their beds was in mine, and she was making it very clear that it was me she wanted—not Edward. As for me, I wanted her so damn bad that I could nearly taste her lips on mine, feel her skin as my hands slid over it.

As if she could read my mind, Rosie smiled, and patted the bed next to her. "Come, get comfortable. And we can talk some more."

Yeah, right. We'd both been around the block enough times to know _exactly _what would happen if I climbed in bed next to her, and no matter how much I wanted her, I didn't feel prepared to compromise her so completely.

I hesitated, and she saw it. A cloud passed over those sky blue eyes. How on earth was I ever going to turn her down without hurting her feelings? I didn't think there was a way I could. Simply saying no and meaning it was going to be enough of a test of my own willpower.

"You're not talking," Rose said evenly. "And you didn't ask me where I've been this last week. You really should."

One of Edward's famous (or infamous) nuggets of sage advice was, "It's a woman's job to try to talk a man to death—it's the man's job to try to fuck it out of her." I'd always thought this was ridiculous, but I could see where this was going with Rosalie. Maybe it was honestly _worse _for her to share her deep emotional baggage versus have sex with me.

Maybe that was my whole problem. To Rosalie, talking about her emotions was akin to the closest relationship she'd had in years; on the other hand, sex had happened with a lot more frequency and with a whole lot less feelings involved.

And really, who was I kidding anyway? I had Rosalie Hale in my bed, for fuck's sake. I wasn't going to be able to resist. I was a good guy... just not _that _good.

"Turn off the overhead light," Rose requested, her voice a tinge huskier than normal. "It's late and it's so bright." She leaned over and switched on the beside lamp, uncoiling her slim body from her sitting position. I was in the middle of shucking my shoes and had my hands on my belt, and when I saw she was only wearing the fitted black tank and a matching pair of black panties, I froze.

Rose smiled a little, so guilelessly that I almost thought that maybe she hadn't done it on purpose. But this was Rosalie, and while she might be a total novice at sharing her feelings and telling off the Edward Cullens of the world, she was right at home in this bed. A lot of men might have minded that she'd undoubtedly been around the block once or twice, but so had I, and like I had told her earlier, I'd made too many of my own mistakes to pass judgment on hers. Rosalie was Rosalie, and I would take all of her—the good and the bad—because every single molecule of her was precious to me.

With a hand that wasn't entirely steady, I switched off the overhead light as she'd asked and crossed to the bed. As she had a week ago, Rose nearly seemed to melt into me as soon as my body hit the mattress, except that there was a very salient difference between that night and tonight: she'd been asleep then, and now we were both very, very awake.

I couldn't help it; my hands just gravitated towards all the warm, golden-freckled skin that was visible. As I smoothed them over her shoulders, teasing the little bit of collarbone I could see with a finger, I said to her, "so what _did _you do this week? I wondered where you'd been."

She trembled a little at my touch, and the tiny tremors were the very beginning of my undoing. "I went away. Went to talk to someone at my family's cabin in the Adirondacks."

"Someone?" Her head dipped a little and strands of her long blond hair fell across her cheek so her face was shadowed to me. I knew she'd done it on purpose, and I wondered what was so embarrassing about seeing a friend at her family's cabin, but then she continued.

"I saw a . . .counselor. A therapist. We talked the whole week about why I choose men like Edward. Why I let them . . .abuse me." Rose whispered the last word, as if saying it out loud somehow made it true.

My grip on her shoulders tightened and I felt every single reason I'd had to stay away from her evaporating as if they'd never even existed, but not exactly the same way as before. Absolute certainty coalesced in me and I knew then what I had to do, and that it would be one of the hardest things I'd ever committed to—and one of the most worth it, if it worked out in the end.

"You know that I'm not like them," I said cautiously, and her bright blue eyes peeked through the blond strands that fell across her face. She nodded, and I said, "So we can't do the same things that you did with them. It has to be different with me—different for you. I don't want you to feel like I don't want you, because I do, but I couldn't bear for me to be like all those others. You mean too much to me--and I want to mean too much to you."

Moisture glimmered in the corners of her eyes, and she wrapped herself so tightly around me that I almost forgot to breathe. As her head buried in the crook of my neck, I told myself that this was a sacrifice worth making. I'd originally thought I could stay away, that I could make this matter less if I slept with her instead of being the one man she tried to mend herself for. But I knew now that I loved her too much to ever have a hope of pulling that off. I would have to do this right, if only she could wait and hold on and not judge when my own past came to town.

"I believe you," I heard her murmur, and I smiled, at no one and nothing in particular. Even when life seemed full of reasons to defeat you, there was always some bright glimmer of hope to cling to. And for so long that glimmer for me had been Rosalie.

"Good," I told her. "I meant it."

" No," she giggled a little. "I mean, yes. I do believe that you meant _that_, but I also believe that you want me." She nudged my legs open a little and I realized that she was nearly on top of little Emmett (or Big Emmett)—who'd realized it long before I had. Whoops.

I tried really hard not to blush, but I failed. "Uh. Sorry?"

"Nonsense," Rosalie said, grinding on me briefly, probably because she enjoyed torturing me, "I'm rather enjoying it."

"I'd much rather you enjoyed it in other ways."

"Of course you would," she laughed, "but I thought you were also taking some perverse pleasure in being the martyr."

"Oh don't get me wrong—I am. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to whine incessantly about how I have the most beautiful girl in the universe and I can't do any of the things I've been dreaming about for months now."

I felt Rose suddenly go still, and I realized half a second too late what I'd just admitted to. Though, I reasoned, thoughts racing through my mind, it wasn't like she didn't know. She'd _had _to known how I felt about her. I wasn't that fucking subtle about it.

"Really?"

"Really." There was no point in lying now. Unfortunately.

She pulled back a little so she could look at my face and I could see her eyes were bright and happy—they weren't all that surprised or creeped out, thank god. "I guess I knew. Or I suspected. You just hated to see me with him so much."

"I hated it because you deserved better."

"You," she answered before I could continue. "I deserved someone like you."

I wanted so damn much to nod my head and agree with her; to believe, as she so completely did, in my own ability to love her the way she deserved to be loved. But I knew what was coming, and I knew that it was pretty damn likely that I would have to abandon her sooner rather than later, and it wouldn't be because I wanted to. It would be because I had no other choice.

"I'm not. . ._good_. . .like you think I am," I said and my voice was a lot more strained than I thought it would be. "I've done things that are going to catch up to me."

"And we'll face them together."

I had to shake my head then. "No. Absolutely not. I'll face them alone because I brought them on myself. I won't have you get involved."

"What things?" Rosalie's eyes were inquisitive and I could nearly see her mind turning over all sorts of possibilities. What could I possibly have done that I'd have to pay for? I hoped to God that she'd never have to find out.

"Just trust me on this. Promise me." I knew I sounded hard and unyielding but I had to be about this. My number one priority was keeping Rosalie safe and making sure that what followed me around like a bad fucking smell didn't even know she existed. And hoping and praying that she wouldn't loathe the sight of me after all this was done. "Promise me that you'll stay out of anything that happens that involves me. Promise me that you won't get involved. It wouldn't be safe for you."

"But then it wouldn't be safe for you." A month ago, I would have killed to see that look of growing affection in her face. Now, it just killed me instead. I was so fucking terrified that she was going to be stupid and become the martyr to save me from something that I had decided I deserved.

"That doesn't matter. I can handle it. Just remember. Stay out of it. And please, for the love of God, Rosie, just promise me. Promise me you'll be safe, and promise you won't hate me."

She buried her face in my chest and I felt weak. "I don't know what you're talking about. Everything is going to be fine."

"Promise," I said roughly. "Please. For me."

Her lips grazed the side of my neck. "I promise," she whispered huskily in my ear. "I promise to do what you say."

"Okay," I said limply, wondering how long I was going to be able to hold out on the idea of us being together, yet celibate with her lips on my skin and her hands on my chest. "Good enough."

It was going to be a fucking long night, that's for damn sure.

I woke up feeling better than I had in ages. I was well-rested, not only because Edward had finally gotten his drunk ass to bed at a halfway decent hour and I'd been able to get a good night's sleep for the first time in longer than I cared to remember, but I'd also spent the night in the arms of the woman I loved. I knew she didn't love me yet, so I couldn't tell her, but I could feel it growing between us. I just hoped to God it was strong enough to withstand the shit storm when it hit.

And as if on cue, as if fate had been merely standing by, waiting for things to finally go right for me, my phone vibrated. I was on my way to the hotel gym, having left Rosalie still sleeping in bed. I'd looked out the window into an early morning drizzle instead of the bright sunshine I'd wanted, but I figured I could get a run in on the treadmill anyway. I'd changed into some loose running shorts and a wife beater and headed down the hallway to the gym.

I grabbed the phone out of my pocket and felt everything inside me turn to ice. I'd been living in dread for weeks, waiting to see this number appear on my phone, because I knew when it finally happened, everything would irrevocably change.

"Fuck," I muttered viciously, trying to not to think of the woman asleep in my bed, three floors up, and all the positive thoughts I'd had this morning. "_Fuck_."

I answered with a short, "Hello," leaning against the hallway wall.

"The pieces are in place," the voice said. "It's time to move them."

I closed my eyes in agony. They could not have picked worse timing for this. "Tonight," the voice finished. "You will do it tonight."

I clicked the phone off without acknowledging the request. I didn't trust myself to even speak.

Instead of heading to the gym as I'd planned, I turned around and went back to the room. If it was going to be tonight, I had a lot of fucking planning to do. Because of my conversation last night with Rose, it was more important than ever that I execute this flawlessly, because if absolutely nothing went wrong, I might have a chance in hell of actually being with her when this was all over.

* * *

**AN: Cliffie!!!!**

**Josie & I have entered the Texts from Last Night Contest with our entry, "The Princess & The Pussycat"--which is kinda sadistic fun! Check it out :)**

**Also, izzzysparkles is amazing and created a twitter for our Punkrockward--it's Punkrockward, if you'd like to follow and see all the hilariously fucked up things he's saying.**


	7. Meet Brit Bitch

**AN: And finally, we reach the moment we've been building towards for six looooong chapters. In case you thought anything before this was superfluous . . .WABAM. Yeah, uh, I'm pretty excited about this chapter. Not gonna lie :)**

**Playlist is updated, and listed on my profile. Thanks to my kickass beta JosieSwan, who pwns me every day of the week with her awesomeness.**

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* * *

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**Bella**

"You've lost your mind," Alice said flatly, and I felt as if all the crap that I'd brought down on us was finally beginning to show in her voice and in her face. She was pissed, and I wasn't entirely sure she was wrong to be.

"Yes," I agreed. "Definitely."

"Just so you know," she said, and returned to my closet, where she was currently throwing out clothes at an alarming rate. "This would be a lot easier," she continued, grumbling, "if you actually wore something other than jeans and concert t-shirts."

"I thought you didn't care if I wore jeans and t-shirts."

Alice poked her head out of my closet. "I _don't _care, but since you've decided that the only way you're going to get into his private sanctum is to be mistaken for a groupie, I don't think jeans and t-shirts are going to suffice. At least the jeans and t-shirts you own."

"I don't know if I can even pull groupie off," I confessed, scuffing the edge of my foot against the carpeted floor. "I've never dressed like a groupie in my life."

"Sweetie, your mother is Renee Swan—I don't think you're going to have any trouble."

I sighed. "Yeah, I don't think that's going to help. I don't exactly look like her. I seem to have inherited only my dad's genes."

Alice emerged from the closet again, clutching another handful of what appeared to be random items of clothing that no doubt she would turn into an amazing outfit. "You're wrong," she insisted, setting her finds on the bed, "you're more like your mom than you realize. And I don't just mean physically; your personalities aren't that different, either."

Awkwardly I turned towards the full length mirror on the back of my door and looked at my reflection. When I saw myself, I didn't see the beautiful, polished Renee Swan; I only saw the plain, brown-haired, brown-eyed Bella Swan, with the normal features and the average body.

Truth was, I believed Renee and let her say everything she did, because when I looked in the mirror, I saw what she saw—an ordinary girl who instead of her drop dead gorgeous supermodel mother, looked exactly like her dad.

Alice appeared behind me, just as I was about to turn away, semi-disgusted with my own maudlin remorse than I didn't look more like Renee. If I had looked more like her, it would have been impossible to shoot down the modeling career. It was hard enough as it was. "You're wrong, Bella. Completely wrong. No, you don't have the blonde hair Renee has—or her blue eyes. But you've got her features. Her cheekbones. Her lips. Her skin. You're beautiful in your own, unique way."

"Does this mean," I asked, "that you're okay with what I'm doing?"

Alice laughed and scrunched her face up at me. "Absolutely not. You're still crazy. _This _is still crazy. Why I'm helping you, I have no idea."

"I could do it myself."

"Yeah, and you'd never be able to figure out how to even begin. You'd show up in jeans and that gray sweatshirt of yours, and be completely shocked why nobody thought you were trying to get into Edward's pants."

"Then you're doing it because I can't do it without you—and because you kinda don't want to be homeless."

Alice had out her favorite pair of sewing shears, and they flashed in the light of the setting sun as she sliced through one of my favorite pairs of jeans. "What are you doing? I loved those!" I shrieked, grabbing them out her hands. Mournfully, I stared at what was left of them—which admittedly wasn't much. When I'd asked Alice to help me look the part so I could get backstage and into see Edward, I hadn't ever really thought about what would entail. Or how little clothing I'd have to wear to pull it off.

She grabbed the jeans back, and the shears sliced again, leaving even _less _fabric. "You asked, and you're going to get it," she told me unapologetically. "You can still change your mind."

That was the problem though. I couldn't. The more I'd thought about this—which had been all day now—the more right it felt. I had to talk to him about "Aimin' to Misbehave" and how he was moving forward. I had to get the straight story. And the fact that the advertisers would eat up the numbers the story would bring in didn't hurt either.

"No, this is what I need to do," I said firmly, then glanced over at Alice's busy hands. "My god," I exclaimed. "Just make sure I'm not fucking _indecent_."

Alice lifted an eyebrow. "You want to look like a groupie. I think that's a required part of their dress code—being indecent, that is."

I groaned and flopped down on the bed. "How am I even going to pull this off? I'm not even _blonde_."

Looking up confused from her sewing, Alice asked, "what does you not being blonde have to do with anything?"

"Edward only likes blondes."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Typical. So that just means you're going to have look so hot it doesn't matter you're a brunette."

"Again. I don't think that's possible."

Alice looked up again, her eyes crafty and sly. "You vastly underestimate me. Wait until I'm done with this skirt."

"That's a skirt?"

Alice held up the postage stamp-sized portion of the jeans she'd just massacred. "Just trust me, it'll be perfect."

Panic lanced through me and I wondered for the hundredth time if I could pull this off—and then I realized that if I didn't, we would be in a very bad place again. I didn't have a choice about whether this worked or not. It just had to. I would _make _it happen, even if I had to wear a dozen tiny skirts that didn't cover my ass.

"I'm going to go take a shower," I said, thinking I had to get out of here before I watched Alice desecrate more of my clothes in order to make me look like a ho.

Two hours later, I was back in front of the mirror and staring at someone that I hadn't even known existed.

Part of me really wanted Alice to take my picture to use as evidence the next time Renee told me that I wasn't beautiful. Because, with some work and some effort on Alice's part, I _was_. Alice was an extraordinarily talented girl, but she also had class that went bone-deep, and as much as it was hard to ever imagine myself as a groupie, it was even more completely alien to Alice. So the outfit I was wearing was definitely groupie-material and could probably get me arrested for indecent exposure in most districts, but in some indefinable way, it also managed to hit just south of ho bag.

"Wow," I said softly, letting my hands drift down the cut-off purple tank that made even my white skin glow and the incredibly short, yet perfectly pleated and tattered denim miniskirt. Alice had unearthed a pair of long striped knee socks that screamed schoolgirl, and they added an indefinable edge of corrupted innocence that, as Alice said, "made the outfit."

She'd tamed and teased my hair into a wavy, sexed up mane, and even my makeup, while heavy, only served to emphasize what she insisted were my good features—my cheekbones and my dark eyes.

I might not be a blonde goddess like Rosalie Hale, but I looked damned good regardless. In fact, it was hard for me to believe that the image in the mirror was even me.

"You look amazing," Alice said with a definite edge of self-congratulation in her voice. And who could blame her? I looked nothing like I had only that morning. No gray hoodies in evidence, thank you very much.

"It's almost too bad it's for such a superficial pig," I said ruefully. "I feel like it's kind of a waste."

"Oh, it is. And I almost wish that we could get you to do this all the time—not the micro skirt, of course—but you look so beautiful, Bella. Almost more beautiful than Renee."

I shrugged. "I don't really care enough, but it's nice to know it's there if I ever need to use it." It was true; I felt unreasonably confident tonight. As if I could almost waltz in and make Edward want me. Which, I realized with a sick feeling growing in my stomach, was exactly what I was going to have to do.

Alice wrapped her arms around me and I smiled into her uptilted face. "And that's the Bella I know and love. She's in there somewhere, still."

"Oh, I'm still here. Same Bella, different clothes."

* * *

Alice refused to let me enjoy the concert the same way I had the night before.

"No way am I redoing your hair and makeup in that disgusting bathroom," Alice had told her with arms crossed over her chest. "You're going to have to behave and stay out of the mosh pit."

I thought about arguing for a moment, but decided not only was she right on the makeup and hair part, I could far better utilize my time by figuring out how on earth I was going to get backstage to see Edward. What I really needed to do, I decided, surveying the concert venue before Athair went on, was befriend that big, beefy guy who seemed to be Edward's main pimp.

I'd seen him at a few concerts over the last year, and had heard about him from reputation. Maybe if I put in a good word with him, I'd manage to get backstage.

After a few last words of encouragement from Alice, I approached the barrier in front of the stage. At this point, there were only a few fans milling around, waiting for the break to end before Athair went on. I could see the big guy a few feet away, and I sidled up, putting an extra swing in my hips and pasting a sweet, flirtatious smile on that I'd copied from Renee.

"Excuse me," I called to him. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

At first, he appeared to ignore me, but then I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. I held my breath for a second as the big man took in my appearance from head to toe, and apparently I passed whatever test he'd been using because he sighed and walked over.

"What do you want?" he asked, and I could see the long-suffering annoyance on his face. I could only imagine what working for Edward Cullen was like, and I felt a whole load of pity for this guy.

"Um," I hesitated sweetly, twisting a stray thread on my skirt, "I was wondering if maybe there was any way I could meet Edward. I'm such a _huge _fan."

His face closed down almost instantly, and I braced for the first round of rejections.

"Do you have a backstage pass? VIP tickets?"

I shook my head regretfully. "No," I simpered. "But I'm such a _huge _fan of Athair. I just want to talk to him for a minute. Please, is there _any _way?"

He hesitated again. I could feel him buckling, and I didn't miss his quick glance at my hair. I'd briefly considered even dying my hair blonde for this, but I'd decided against it. Even Edward Cullen couldn't ever make me do that. I just hoped that I looked good enough that this guy would make an exception for my brown hair.

"Sure," he said, "I guess I could make something happen. You seem like a real _sweet _girl." I could nearly read the thoughts on his face—he thought Edward would also enjoy just how sweet I was. He reached in his pocket for a pad of paper and a pen. "Here, give this to the security at the side door right after the show." Signing the paper with a few indecipherable scribbles, he handed it to me. "They'll let you in."

"Thank you so, _so _much," I gushed. "It means a lot to me."

"No problem," he shrugged. "Enjoy the show."

I walked back to where Alice stood with a triumphant smile on my face and shared what had just transpired with Edward's security. "I can't believe he gave in so easily," I said, excitement over my conquest leaking into my voice. "I thought for sure he would say no at least the first few times and that I'd have to be more persistent."

Alice sipped her gin and tonic thoughtfully, poking at the slice of lime with her neon pink straw. "Don't you think that's a horrible statement on Edward as a person? He doesn't even _care _who he screws."

"I never said he was a saint," I grumbled. Even though I knew exactly what he was and what he did, I still didn't like hearing other people judge him for it. "This wouldn't work if he was."

"If he was a saint, he never would have made that godawful album either," Alice pointed out. "We wouldn't even be here, trying this ridiculous stunt."

"Despite its ridiculousness, it's already working," I defended. "I'm going to be able to get backstage."

"When are you going?" Alice asked. "Are you going to wait until after the show?"

"I don't think so. I think I need to be there the second he gets off—he'll need a few minutes to decompress, shower, that sort of thing, before he's bothered by anybody. And I'll need all that time to get him to talk to me."

"And you're sure you can do that." Alice sounded vaguely unsure that I could, and I felt my own doubts rise strong and sickly in my gut, but I had to stay confident I could do this; everything rested on my ability to pull this off.

"Yes," I said with a lot more certainty than I felt. "I can do it. I can be very persuasive."

"Let's hope you can do it with your clothes on," Alice pointed out. "As you said, I don't think he actually _talks_ to women."

"Oh, I'm going to be real clear about that up front. No sex whatsoever."

"Yeah, that'll be a great way to start out. 'I know I'm dressed so that you'll screw me, but I'm just a big cocktease. I only want to pick your brain about your music and about your disastrous, critically-panned last album.' That'll definitely get him to open up."

"You're not helping," I grumbled. "I have a plan. This _will _work."

"If you say so, Bella," Alice said lightly, but I definitely caught the undercurrent in her voice. It only made me more determined than ever to pull this off, if only to show her that a plan of mine could be successful. I _could _pull us out of this situation unscathed. I could make sure we didn't lose our apartment and our livelihood.

Just then, the lights darkened and the all-too familiar screaming started, followed by the chords of Boston's "Higher Power." I leaned back against the bar, and watched almost objectively from the back of the venue.

"He's still got the sex appeal," Alice noted from beside me. "I thought maybe I'd think he was less hot after that epic fail, but no. He's still sexy."

"He could be half-dead and still be sexy," I observed.

"Considering you're probably going to have to bludgeon him to death to get him to tell you anything, I think you might be able to put that hypothesis into practice."

I made a face at Alice. "That's not funny."

"Oh but it is," she said almost gleefully. "You're incredibly stubborn and so is he. I would _pay _to be a fly on the wall when you two meet."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," Alice continued, "that he's not going to take no for an answer, and it's going to be fairly entertaining to watch you try."

"If you say so," I grumbled half to myself. I still thought I could do it. I didn't care if Alice had no faith in me—I had enough faith in me for both of us.

Halfway through the show, I left Alice and made my way to the side of the stage, skirting the writhing mosh pit, my eyes never leaving the stage where Edward held the entire audience in thrall. He was so god damned good, I thought to myself as I showed the scribbled note to the man at the door, it was such an epic waste for him to be such a worthless, drunken womanizer.

The man let me in, all the while eyeing me like a mannequin in a window. I remembered why I hated dressing this way—I liked being treated like more than just a body. But for tonight, the outfit had done its job, and for that, I was grateful.

I didn't want to ask any of the lounging roadies or staff backstage where Edward's dressing room was—mainly because I didn't want to attract unnecessary attention and because I wasn't sure they'd actually tell me. I was terrified of getting escorted out without having my one shot at figuring out what the hell was actually going in Edward Cullen's mind, so I didn't ask and explored instead, peeking down corridors and opening doors at random.

Finally, I found the right one. It had "Edward" scratched across the whiteboard on the door with green marker, and when I opened it, I could see further evidence that this was where he'd been before he went onstage. There were several bottles of booze lying around, some opened and half-consumed. Several guitars laid about, some which I even recognized as his. I looked around for a good five minutes, making sure that there wasn't anything I could learn to better prepare me to write this article, but it seemed all very generic rockstar.

So I settled down on the couch to wait for his royal rock highness to finish the set.

* * *

The door flew open and slammed against the opposite wall with a sharp, loud thud. I was picking at yet another unraveling thread on my "skirt," and my gaze lifted to meet a pair of angry, insolent green eyes. _The king, _I thought with a sudden horrible flurry of butterflies, _had returned_.

"Who the fuck are you?" Edward asked, stalking over to the table behind me that held a selection of whiskey bottles. He unscrewed one hard and fast, throwing the cap on the floor, and leaned back against the wall, openly eyeing me up and down as he held the bottle to his lips. I had a distinct, unsettling feeling as he looked at me that his question was merely rhetorical. He didn't care who I was, and he didn't ask what I was there for—because he already knew.

I stood, smoothing my skirt down, hoping that it's time on the couch hadn't wrinkled it so badly that my whole ass was now showing. "Hi, I'm Bella." I self-consciously held my hand out to him and he just looked at it with a semi-amused expression, like he couldn't actually believe I'd just introduced myself to the high priest of groupie-fuckers.

Really, I couldn't believe I had either. _This, _I told myself angrily, _was not a fucking job interview_.

"Nevermind," he continued before I could open my mouth to correct myself. "It doesn't even matter. Take off your clothes."

"Uh," I hedged. "Um. Well. Actually . . ." I'd really been hoping that I'd have at least one fucking minute to talk before he got down and dirty. Or rather, before he expected _me _to get down and dirty. Apparently he didn't even give a girl a chance to get acquainted. My personal opinion of Edward Cullen, already at a precariously low position, dipped even further.

He looked back up at me with that same partially amused expression, but this time it was coupled with a distinct narrowing of those green eyes. He wasn't happy, I realized. I would have to get him happy real quick before he called that big guy in here to go find a girl that would put out as fast as he wanted her to.

"Yes. Right. Taking off my clothes." I glanced down and it hit me fast and hard in the gut just how little I'd have to remove to follow his directive. _Not good, Bella._

He was still leaning against the wall, his sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest and abs, his jeans riding low with a Celtic knot belt buckle resting nearly over his clearly-aroused package. I gulped. The next time Renee told me that I wasn't beautiful, I was going to have to pull out this adventure as evidence that she was wrong. I'd managed to turn on Edward Cullen, who'd seen pretty much everything that a girl had to offer, probably millions of times. And he liked what he saw in me. Or maybe, I thought speculatively, it didn't even matter anymore. A blowup doll would probably suffice at this point.

He cleared his throat, and I realized he was still waiting for the clothes removal process to begin. Yeah, about that. . .I wasn't entirely sure I could pull this off after all. It was one thing to think positively when I was sitting in here alone; it was a different proposition entirely to be faced with the admittedly fuckhot Edward Cullen.

I decided to try a diversionary tactic.

"So I didn't know you liked Boston. . ." I said, toying with the waistband of my skirt in the hopes that he would find this G-rated entertainment exciting. It would at least be novel, right?

His eyes narrowed even more, and even that amused expression had evaporated off his face. Now, he was just beginning to look. . .disgusted. Crap.

"I mean, the band, not the city. Obviously My dad, he used to love them." I laughed nervously, horribly, acutely aware that I was failing monumentally over here.

Edward looked decidedly unamused now—he'd now morphed into a mixture of annoyance and boredom. And just when I thought that I'd overstayed my welcome, and he was about to order security to throw me out, Edward uncoiled himself from the wall and walked towards me, his boots making hard clicking sounds on the concrete floor. I felt frozen in place, hypnotized by those green eyes. I was reminded by what Alice and I had talked about earlier tonight about how he could be half dead and still fuckhot—and she'd been so right. I'd spent so many years mooning over pictures of him and even sweaty and wrecked from the night's show, he was almost inhumanely beautiful—a panther stalking his prey.

And unfortunately, _I _was the prey. He stopped in front of me, and reached out for a single strand of my hair, winding it around his finger. "You," he whispered huskily, "won't take your clothes off. So I'm going to have to do it for you then."

I gasped as his hot, damp hand settled on my waist, digging into my bare flesh, and I couldn't help the shiver that went up my spine. "Um, I don't know. . ." I found myself hesitating. I'd thought for so long that girls would have to be insane to succumb to Edward's advances when they knew what he was and what he was about, but being here with him made me realize just how irresistible he really was.

He was magnetic and charming and an asshole. "You're beautiful," he crooned, pulling me against him, his lips coasting up the side of my neck. "And you'll be even more beautiful without any clothes on."

At that moment, I actually believed the crap he was doling out like it was candy. I felt myself falling, sliding painlessly under the spell he wove with his murmured words in my ear, the fingers that sank hungrily into my flesh, the smell of his sweat on his skin. "Trying to play the innocent? I don't believe it."

Edward's lips slid down the column of my neck, insistently moving the edge of my tank until his teeth grazed my collarbone. I couldn't help the shiver that built at the base of my spine. He was ridiculously good at this, but I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised--he'd done it with countless women over the years. Was it so wrong to briefly enjoy his expertise? I felt his hands insistently caressing the skin of my stomach, moving higher and higher, tracing invisible swirls and circles. My eyes opened up to his, and I could see every intention in his eyes. I should say no, I should turn away, but I felt unbearably mesmerized by how good his body felt against mine.

So I moved closer, desperately trying to drown out the loud voice in my head that told me that he didn't care about me at all, and I just _felt_. His fingers insistent and drugging on my skin. His lips caressing my neck, the ridge of my jaw, and my breath exhaled in a shaky breath as he finally found my mouth, more gently than I'd ever imagined that Edward Cullen could--because let's face it, I'd imagined it more than once or twice. He kissed me almost. . .tenderly. . .I thought with amazement, and then he deepened the kiss and I stopped thinking at all. I couldn't help it; I simply fell head over heels into the spell he wove around me.

I was lost until I felt his jeans abrade the skin of my legs, and the sensation--coupled with the insistent rubbing of his hard cock--jerked me out of the spell I'd been under. I'd been so close to just being one in a list so long it didn't have a beginning—or an end. Edward Cullen was the master seducer. I had been incredibly stupid to forget that even for a second. "Yes," I said, pushing him away much more forcefully than I'd intended. "Believe it."

His eyes deepened from clear grass green to something darker, stormier. Something, I realized when I glanced closer, decidedly more pissed off.

"Not only am I not used to having to work for it—after all, that's _your _job—I'm also not used to fucking Brits weaseling their way backstage to my concerts," Edward sneered at me, his face scrunched up as if I suddenly had a rancid smell.

"What?" I'd been sure that he'd be pissed I hadn't put out like he was expecting, but I certainly hadn't expected him to be angry that my parents had been English. In fact, I was shocked he'd even caught the barest trace of the accent in my voice. After leaving Manchester and moving to Beverly Hills to live with my mother and Dr. Phil, I'd hated how my strong accent had made sure I stood out in every single class. So I'd spent my 13th summer taking diction classes to rid myself of what I no longer wanted. In retrospect, I'd probably been using ditching the accent to substitute for ridding myself of all the pain after my dad's death. England, at least at that age, had held all kinds of painful memories and I'd wanted nothing more to do with it. As a result, most people had no idea I was even British because the accent only came out a little when I was scared or upset or nervous—which was exactly why Edward had been able to hear it tonight.

"You're fucking British," he snarled again. "Get the fuck out of here. I don't want no dirty Brits smelling up the place."

I couldn't help it; I gaped at him. I'd never seen anyone go so quickly from seduction to utter hatred. And all because of a few harmless syllables. I saw my dream of #457 Pt 2 dissipating in front of my eyes and I snatched desperately at whatever hope I had left.

"So what exactly do you have against us Brits?" I asked, watching as he retreated back to the whiskey bottle.

"And now she sounds perfectly fucking normal," he muttered, clearly displeased I was still here. But he wasn't calling security yet, which meant that I still had time to salvage this.

"Answer me." Even if I got one piece of dirt, this whole horror of an evening might be worth it. Maybe.

"She's hot like a groupie, but talks like she's got a brain—when she's not being British that is. What the fuck _are _you?" To my shock, he almost looked intrigued, as if he actually cared what I was.

"I told you already," I said, moving towards him again. Going back on the offensive. I'd spluttered out earlier, letting him get the upper hand, but now the shock of his anger had catapulted me back into sanity. I was going to grab this with both hands—grab _him _with both hands—and force him to confess his deepest, darkest secrets. His _musical _secrets. "I'm Bella Swan."

"My worst fucking nightmare." I advanced on him further, moving closer I could nearly feel the heat radiating off him. The power in the room, with him from the moment he'd entered, began to shift my direction and I clung to it like a drowning woman at sea.

"Oh, you have _no _idea. Shall we start with 'Foreplay' or perhaps maybe 'The Rag Rag'? Which would you prefer?"

To give him credit, he only looked marginally shocked. I'd been expecting the declaration of my intentions to grill him about his last disastrous album to be a lot more surprising, but he'd held it together pretty well. However, he did look pretty fucking pissed. I could see his adam's apple working hard, as he gulped down several more swallows of whiskey, then his hot, angry eyes bored into me. "You want to fuck that bad? Okay, we can do that. As long as you stay absolutely fucking silent."

"You'd still fuck me, even though I'm British." It came out as a statement instead of a question—unfortunately I was beginning to figure out just how perverted this man was.

"Sweetheart, I'd fuck just about anyone, even the Queen herself."

I swiped his whiskey bottle, and raised it to my lips, letting some of the alcohol slide down my throat. It warmed my nervous stomach and gave me enough false courage that I could continue to meet his hot, confrontational stare. "So I've heard."

"And tonight you wanted it to be you."

I laughed in his face. "Try again. I need you to tell me about your last album. Tell me why it was such an epic failure. Tell me how you're moving on."

Edward's lips slammed together into a grimace. "Didn't you get the rider? You're not allowed to bring up that shitfest within ten feet of me."

Now we were finally getting somewhere. I liked having Edward pinned, right where I wanted him. Like a butterfly struggling on a pin. I was going to gut him, metaphorically of course, and watch every single one of his secrets spill gruesomely to the floor.

"So you admit it was terrible, then?"

He shrugged, stealing the bottle back and taking a few more sips. Okay, they were more like gulps. I had a feeling that it was the subject of our conversation that he didn't like—or maybe it was me. Either one, he definitely wasn't comfortable. I zeroed in for the kill. "It got the worst reviews of any album all year. Some critics even thought it was one of your sick jokes. But it wasn't, was it? You were just too busy drinking and whoring to write some decent music."

He said nothing, just stared at me, like I was an alien from a strange planet—or maybe it was because I was British. Who knew at this point?

I opened my mouth to tell him that he had potential and to ask him what he was going to do to prevent squandering the rest of it away, but a knock on the door prevented me from speaking. Edward glowered at me one last time, and then walked around me to open the door. I wondered if it was the security guy, and if Edward had called him without me being aware.

It was the big guy; I heard his deep baritone as Edward answered the door, but instead of stepping aside so he could remove the fly in his ointment—namely, _me_—he opened the door a bit wider, and I saw them in an intense and quiet discussion that I couldn't quite overhear. I shifted closer, not wanting to draw attention my presence and stop their conversation before I could properly eavesdrop.

And that's when I saw the big guy whip out a needle from his pocket and jam it into Edward's arm. I think I gasped, but then that might have been Edward, who collapsed seconds later. It was only then that the man looked up and realized that I was there.

Shit.

"What the _fuck _are you doing here?" he asked in harsh tones as he pushed Edward's prostrate body into the room and shut the door behind him. I moved backwards, almost tripping over the couch, in an desperate attempt to get away before he tried to kill me too.

"Did you do that on purpose?" I stuttered. "Did he _want _you to shoot him up?"

"You mean, is he a prescription drug addict as well as being a moody, angsty, alcoholic asshole? No," he said almost wryly. "And again, what the _fuck _are you doing here?"

I felt myself panicking and tried to take a few deep breaths. "You knew I would be here!"

"Actually no. I thought you'd be here much later—after I'd already taken him."

"You're going to take him?" My voice rose with my mounting hysterical panic and I realized that I was in way, way over my head. "Why would you want to do that?"

The man chuckled again, and picked up Edward as if he was made of air instead of being a dead weight. "I know, right? Why would _anyone _want this lousy excuse for a man? I wondered the same thing. But I don't ask questions. I just do what they tell me."

"And what is that, exactly?" I demanded. "Where you taking him?"

"You could say I'm taking him to meet some old friends."

"Does he know you're taking him?" I wasn't exactly sure why I was asking Big Guy all these questions. After all, Edward Cullen didn't exactly deserve someone to ask them, but I couldn't help myself.

"Not exactly, no." He propped Edward up on the couch and carefully made sure his head wasn't tilted at an unnatural angle. His actions seemed to prove both that he was a crazy weirdo and that he also cared about Edward, all of which added up to something that made no sense. Unfortunately, I was about as curious as I was stubborn.

"Then that's kidnapping," I said, and didn't want for him to answer. "So you're kidnapping Edward Cullen. In front of me."

Big man turned towards me, but I didn't feel any fear—only a terrible, addictive adrenaline pumping through my veins. "You can just pretend you didn't see me. I promise, no harm is going to come to him. Some old friends just want to see him. Have a little chat with him."

"And I'm assuming he doesn't know that these friends are requesting his illustrious presence?"

"What do I have to do to make sure you stay quiet?" he asked finally, rising to stand in front of me. We stared each other down for a second, and a horrible, terrible, absolutely fucking brilliant plan began to form inside my mind.

"I'll keep quiet," I said, hesitating. Was I crazy enough to do this? To say this? I wasn't crazy enough, I decided—just desperate enough. Desperate enough to do whatever needed to be done to make my blog a success and to finally escape from under my mother's pernicious influence.

"I'll keep quiet," I repeated, " but only if you take me with you."

That was clearly the last thing he was expecting me to say. "Take you with me? With me and Edward? You've got to be kidding." He laughed, high and nervous, and I realized he was sweating. He wasn't exactly a kidnapping professional, I decided. This smacked of amateur kidnapping, and was therefore more safe than something say, more _Mafioso_.

"Or else I tell everyone that you took him. If he's just going to meet some old friends, it won't be a big deal. I won't be in the way. And I'll have all the time I need to question him."

He ran a hand through his hair and hesitated. "I don't know. . .I . . ."

I flipped my cell phone out of my pocket and began to dial 911, calling his bluff. "The offer stands for the next fifteen seconds. You take me with you or I'm calling the cops."

"I could just grab your phone and break your neck," he pseudo-threatened, but again, I didn't feel a single bit of fear. This guy was sweet and jovial and nice. He wasn't a killer or a thug. He wouldn't touch a hair on my head. Now Edward's on the other hand. . .

"You swear to me you'll keep quiet if I just let you come with us?"

"I swear."

"Fine. But, you're in charge of booze boy over there. He's probably going to wake up puking and it'll be your job to keep him quiet. Now we're running late and we need to get out of here before anyone else suspects anything. Follow me."

"Where are we going?" I asked as the man swept up Edward in his arms like he weighed nothing.

"Insider information wasn't part of our deal. Like it or not, you're along for the ride now."

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**HOLY SHIT. sorry. couldn't help that.**

**Tonight at 7 PM EST, I am hosting a #readalong of the story that influenced me SO MUCH as an AH writer--and just a writer in general--The Teenage Angst Brigade by the fuckamazing jandco. Follow me on twitter at bethaboo555 and enjoy this amazing story with me :)**


	8. Bucket Duty

**AN: Everyone's reviews, favorite, alerts for this really make me squee with wonder and glee :) I love that you love Punkrockward and Brit Bitch as much as I do.**

**Playlist updated per usual. Girl power this week!**

**JosieSwan--you rock my world.**

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**Bella**

I realized that I might be in over my head somewhere along 93 North. Actually, that might have happened when Big Guy drugged Edward. Or when he stole him from backstage. Or maybe when I demanded and blackmailed him into taking me along.

No. I'd figured out I was way over my head when he'd demanded my phone before I could even send a quick text to Alice to reassure her that I hadn't just lost my mind—except that I completely had. What had I been thinking, demanding that he take me with him? No matter how much I needed an inside track on Edward's inner thoughts, being kidnapped was never the right solution.

Or maybe the low point came when he decided we needed to be handcuffed. Together.

There were so many options to pick from, I was having a hard time making up my mind what the low, sordid point of this whole endeavor was.

"Um," I said loudly, trying to make sure the big jerk in the front heard me over the air whistling through the open windows of the van. "Hello? My wrists are beginning to chafe. Can you _please _take these damn things off?"

Nothing. Total silence. Apparently Big Guy had decided that once I'd managed to get myself into this situation, he didn't have to do anything to get me out.

I glanced sideways at the man I was currently chained to. In all my wildest dreams, I'd never imagined that I would find actually physically connected to Edward Cullen. He was still asleep—or drugged—and I'd yet to pull vomit duty, thank God.

"Hello?" I yelled now, shaking our connected hands so that the metal jingled obnoxiously. "Handcuffs please?"

"Handcuffs?" Instead a reply from the front seat, the word came from the man next to me, and it was slurred and nearly unrecognizable. Crap. Edward was awake—or something close to it.

I turned and saw that his eyes were unfocused, but unfortunately for me, they were definitely open. Great. Okay. Time to somehow confess to the bad boy of punk that he'd not only been kidnapped, but that someone he wasn't exactly fond of was along for the ride. His eyes narrowed and focused, taking in the ratty, torn seats we were sitting on and then his gaze drifted along my bare arm until it rested on the glamorous silver cuff decorating my wrist and his.

The air between us thickened with his displeasure and I didn't think I'd ever felt so loathed in my entire life.

"Do you think I can ask why the fuck I'm in a van, you're poisoning my air supply and we're fucking handcuffed together?"

I took a deep breath. "I really wish I could, but Big Guy in the front is going to have to the explaining."

"Big Guy? Who the fuck is that?" Slowly he raised his head and looked towards the driver.

His head hit the seat again. "First—I think I'm going to be sick. Second—Emmett, where the fuck are you taking me and why am I chained to Brit Bitch?"

Apparently only the man next to me was able to get Big Guy's attention, even though he'd barely spoken above a hungover whimper and I'd been fucking shrieking. "We're going to see some old friends. And you should ask your girl over there why she's here."

"God, I don't think I can. I might be sick." Edward paused, his face contorting with disgust, and I wanted so badly to hit him, but I had a policy of not taking out my anger on God's lesser creatures. "Oh wait," he continued, growing paler as he struggled to sit up. "Or, I might be sick anyway."

Fumbling with my one free hand for the bucket jammed beneath the seat, I finally wrenched it loose and thrust it underneath Edward's face. "What?" I said at his snarling expression. "Better in the bucket than on me."

"I couldn't disagree more," he said, and proceeded to vomit into the yellow plastic receptacle.

No. I'd been wrong before. We hit the most sordid moment of all as I heard and _felt _the stream of Edward's vomit hit the bucket, filling the van with the hideous smell of rancid booze and something indefinably wretched—_this _was the instant I knew that I had made the worst decision of my entire life.

Edward threw up again, and I almost felt a second of pity for the man next to me as he puked his guts out. But sympathy would require him to be human, and I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't a diabolical asshole of an alien imported from some insensitive colony in space.

"You okay?" Emmett asked from the front seat, because clearly he could hear _and _smell the developing situation. "I was afraid the drugs wouldn't mix well with the booze you'd drank."

"Really?" I snapped, my temper fraying. Except that I wasn't as angry at Big Guy than I was furious with myself for believing that I'd land on my feet after this last monumental mistake. "I can't imagine why you would drug him then."

"As much as I hate to agree with Brit Bitch over here," Edward said coming up for air, "I can't help but wonder that myself. What the _fuck _is going on, Emmett? You have some explaining to do." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and I wanted to puke myself. Swallowing hard, I shoved a dirty rag at him.

"Use this instead," I told him. "Then we can throw it out the window and we won't have to smell the contents of your stomach for the entire trip."

"Little late for that," Emmett said. "We're not stopping anytime soon. Unless you feel like hurling that bucket out the window, we're going to be smelling it for awhile longer. Oh wait—wrong choice of words." He chuckled darkly, and I wondered how I could have ever thought he was nice underneath. He was a fucking maniac.

"Very funny," Edward glowered, throwing down the rag into the vomit in the bucket. "Why the fuck was I drugged?"

The man in the front seat sighed, and suddenly I felt a weird wrench of pity for Edward. He'd clearly trusted this man to protect him, but instead he'd drugged and stolen him away. Of course, I could only imagine what Edward had done over the years to deserve it.

"I told you. You have some friends . . ."

"Yeah. Friends like you?" His voice was so raw that I had to swallow back the lump in my throat. Betrayal by someone you trusted was never easy to take.

"Man, I'm sorry. There was . . .I didn't have a choice. You have to believe me. But it's all going to be alright, I promise."

Edward appeared to be marginally appeased by this, because he just flopped back on the torn seat. Gingerly, I pulled the bucket away and shuddered in disgust as the vomit slopped around inside. "Um. Where should I put this?" I asked hesitantly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "I don't want to tip it over."

"Yeah, because then you might get your prostitute clothes dirty," Edward interjected, "and that would be a real shame. You couldn't use them for tricking any other rock stars into spilling their guts."

"I didn't trick you. I never said I would sleep with you. I just wanted to. . .talk."

"Yeah, I don't really _do _that," Edward grimaced, turning away from me, jerking my arm in the process. I pulled back and rubbed the welt that was quickly forming on my wrist. "Emmett, please uncuff us. This is too much."

"Sorry. I can't trust either of you. Especially Edward. He isn't the one who _begged _me to take him on this trip, after all."

That got Edward's attention. "I was right all along—you _are _a sick bitch."

"I'm not a bitch. And my name's Bella, by the way. In case you didn't remember from earlier."

"How could I have forgotten? Your name is Bella, you're apparently some bastard form of British, and on top of that, you'd like to talk about my lowest point as a musician."

Alice had been right all along. This idea had been awful from the beginning, and it had only gone from bad to worse. "I'm a good listener," I added lamely. "In case you _did _want to talk—you know, about how you feel betrayed that your friend drugged and took you . . ."

". . .and handcuffed me to the most annoying woman in the entire world? No thanks." He closed his eyes, effectively shutting me out.

"Oh, and Emmett. In case you were trying to find some unique, bizarre torture method during this kidnapping, handcuffing me to Brit Bitch is innovative and very, very effective."

Three torturous hours later, Emmett finally pulled off the interstate and into a gas station. I tensed, but Edward remained totally relaxed, his eyes closed. Unfortunately, because we were so closely linked, I was sure he could feel my suddenly rigid muscles.

"Relax. He's just getting gas," Edward informed me, without either opening his eyes or turning his head my direction. If I'd been deaf, I would never have known he was giving me the time of day—not that he really was anyway. He clearly loathed the idea that I was chained to him, but not so much the idea that he was kidnapped, if that was even what we were calling Emmett's semi-peaceful abduction.

I couldn't figure it out, actually. If I'd been in Edward's shoes, I would have panicked long ago, and done everything I could to escape. Edward, on the other hand, appeared to be just going with the flow, and let Emmett do whatever he wanted with him. He resented that someone he'd trusted had taken him, but he didn't appear to care about the _taking _part. I wondered if that meant he'd hit such a rock bottom that he no longer cared what happened to him.

I, on the other hand, cared very much about what happened to me, and though I'd initially blackmailed Emmett into bringing me along, I was feeling the sudden need to escape this whole squalid affair before I got in way over my head.

Wait. Before I got in over my head? I was clearly already there—in the backseat of a brokendown Ford van, holding a puke bucket for an asshole musician who I was currently tied to in a lot of ways I didn't want to examine too closely. And speaking of the handcuffs—to escape, I'd either have to motivate Edward to care enough to get away or force Emmett to disconnect us.

"My wrist is really sore," I announced loudly, only to nearly feel the force of Edward's ire turning in on me. I didn't get it. How could he be so fucking angry at me for just happening to be born British, but forgive Emmett for _kidnapping _him?

"Please, you're such a wimp," Edward chided, as if he suddenly _liked _being tied together. I, however, was not dumb enough to buy that line. He just wanted to disagree with everything I said, which was really maturity in action. "Besides, I have a feeling that Emmett removes these and you're gone. Whatever reason you tagged along, you're finding out that I'm not all fun and games."

"Really?" I glared at him. "And here I thought we were having a great time. I was about to ask you to braid my hair, and then maybe later we could break out the road trip games and have a singalong."

I heard Emmett's derisive snort from the backseat, but Edward said nothing, and turned back to the window. "Sorry, Bella, but he's right," Emmett said, his voice rather believably apologetic. "I can't separate you two. And on top of that, please no scenes while we're around other people. I wouldn't want to gag you."

I rolled my eyes. "I blackmailed you into taking me along. I'm not going to bail now." Too bad I'd been thinking about it ever since I'd made the decision to leverage Emmett into kidnapping me too. But they didn't have to know that I was regretting it more than ever.

"Bullshit. And you don't need to worry. I'm not going to do anything. You wanted me so bad, you've got me," Edward said.

I wanted to strangle him. How could he be so damn cavalier about his personal safety? Of course, I wasn't exactly the poster child on good choices right now, so maybe it was wrong of me to be so judgmental.

"Fine," I told Edward. "Be that way. Act that way. Your choice."

I didn't have to look in Edward's direction to see his disgruntled expression. Of course, maybe that was just his normal expression whenever he was in my presence.

"I'll just be a minute, children. Behave yourselves." Emmett opened the door and I leaned closer to the window, watching him hand a few bills to the attendant and then head into the mini mart attached to the gas station.

"Quick," I hissed at Edward, shaking our connected wrists. "Let's see if we can get these damned handcuffs off."

Unsurprisingly, Edward said nothing, even as I continued to jangle the dratted handcuffs. "I'm serious," I insisted. "We could get out of here before he gets back."

"Why are you so eager to get out? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you _did _volunteer for this."

"Regardless of how I feel about the situation, why aren't _you _trying harder to escape? You didn't exactly _ask _to be kidnapped."

"I told you before," Edward snapped. "I don't care. I trust Emmett. He would never betray me."

"He already did," I practically yelled. "He _kidnapped _you."

"Emmett is a friend. He knows what he's doing. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"Let's hope not," I retorted. "Because if you're wrong, then we're _both _screwed."

Emmett opened the front door of the van and slid into the driver's seat. "Have fun, kiddies?"

Stony silence met him. "Well," he continued. "At least you're both here still. I was half-expecting to have to chase you down 93 North. And as a reward for good behavior, I brought snacks."

"Where were we going to go?" I said, not bothering to mask my bitterness. "We're fucking handcuffed together."

"As you keep reminding us," Edward replied. "You're acting as if I enjoy your company or I _wanted _your company."

"I'm just here to grill you about your musical past, that's all."

"Good luck with that," Emmett said. "I've never seen Edward do something he doesn't want to do."

"Amen. Now can you just shut the fuck up, Brit Bitch?"

I didn't reply—just turned my back on him as much as I could, considering that we were still hooked together—and stared out the window, attempting to pretend that I was anywhere else. I wasn't exactly doing what he told me to. I just didn't want to be reduced to yet another verbal war at the moment.

"So who wants snacks?" Emmett asked.

"Too bad you couldn't have gotten funky over here a shower instead." I sniffed the air and made a disgusted face. Unfortunately Edward had never gotten his shower after the show and between unwashed male and my lovely present from him earlier, the van was smelling more than a little ripe. Yet another reason, I thought to myself, why this had been the worst idea ever.

"Too bad you couldn't have found Brit Bitch here some clothes so she could cover up all the goods she isn't interested in sharing."

I'd been uncomfortably aware of my ridiculously skimpy attire for about the first hour of the trip, but by the second hour, the rest of it was so fucking uncomfortable that I'd forgotten about how much skin I was really showing. I glanced down and to my horror saw that the short skirt Alice had constructed had ridden up and I was displaying a not-insignificant amount of upper thigh to Edward.

He must have followed my gaze because he just sneered at my expression. "It's only physical, sweetheart. Don't worry, I have no interest in sampling anything you're offering. Or _not _offering."

I hated how he made me sound so unbelievably frigid, just because I hadn't melted into his arms—okay, well I had, a little bit, but only in a moment of extreme weakness. I wasn't cold; I just wasn't buying his line of bullshit. However, if I was really going to get him to confess all his musical skeletons to me, I needed to tone down on my biting sarcasm and cheap digs, no matter how tempting it was to continue to needle him. I needed to be nice and convince him to trust me. Though, I clearly had a long way to go on that front, considering that he currently trusted the man who had kidnapped him more than he trusted me.

I imagined Renee's face when I was a nationally successful music blogger, and able to give her the middle finger whenever I wanted, and kept that in the forefront of my thoughts as I turned the brightest smile I could manage in Edward's direction. "So you never did answer my question," I said as he ripped open a bag of Doritos with his free hand, "what is it exactly that you have against anyone from Britain?"

Emmett clucked from the front seat, his voice a clear warning sign to stay away. I knew it was dangerous leading with such a frontal charge, but I needed Edward to know that he wouldn't dissuade me no matter how much he put me down and patronized me. I was stronger than that—he just needed to be reminded of it about fifty million times.

"That's none of your fucking business," Edward said in a hard, resolute voice. And just like that, he closed down even more, locked tight as a vault.

I unscrewed a bottle of water and let it tip, cold and wet and wonderful down my dry throat. Looking up, I caught him looking at me, curiosity wary in his green eyes. "So does that mean you'll retire 'Brit Bitch'?"

"Hell no," Edward smirked. "I find it a very apt nickname."

Patience, Bella, I told myself. You aren't going to crack this safe in five minutes. Persistence is key. "And I could ask again, why does the fact that I have the tiniest hint of a British accent make you so adverse to my company?"

"It's not only the accent, it's your generally repellant know-it-all attitude. You're a combination of a hymnal and Miss Manners. It's fucking obnoxious."

I gritted my teeth and forced the smile to return, even though it desperately wanted to flee. "You definitely did _not _like my accent back at the House of Blues."

"A fleeting moment of passion—or _not _passion, I should say."

"I hate to remind you—or me—of this," I replied sweetly, "but at the moment my accent slipped out, I wasn't exactly saying no. So if you're insinuating it was my lack of groupie behavior that annoyed you, you're lying."

Edward stubbornly remained silent, and I decided to try a different angle. "So what about all those rumors I hear about you drunkenly boxing with Brits? Is that because they don't fuck you too?"

"Emmett," Edward said warningly, his voice husky and deep with annoyance. And of course, like the silly girl I couldn't help being, I felt something hard and hot knot deep in my belly. If only that voice didn't belong to such a raging egomaniac asshole.

"There weren't any of those incidences," Emmett announced. "They're completely unsubstantiated."

"Bullshit. You threw money at them so they'd go away," I said bluntly, finally feeling like I was getting somewhere. I'd done my research and there'd been rumblings for years that all things British were abhorrent to him. I just hadn't realized how bad it was until he'd caught merely a hint of an accent, and suddenly he was pissed as hell. I didn't want to know what he'd do if he ever came face to face with fish and chips or a Yorkshire pudding.

Edward shrugged, his face completely devoid of any reaction to my statement. "Still means there's no proof."

"And you're still not going to say anything," I said with mounting frustration. "Fine. Let's change subjects. _Aiming to Misbehave_."

"Next subject," Edward said softly. "That one is equally off-limits."

"I should have warned you," Emmett said, "he's not exactly friendly with the press."

"Thanks," I ground out. "I really appreciate the heads up."

Mentally, I tried to regroup, to think of something I could ask. _Anything _that could end this ridiculous defensive stand. "What about one of your earlier albums? We could talk about one of those."

I didn't really want to write about one of them—I'd already done that multiple times and doing it again wouldn't exactly bring the advertisers knocking, but if it put him at ease and convinced him to trust me, I was willing to rehash a little past history.

"Not going to work, Swan," Edward said, his eyes drifting close. "Now shut up before I forget I'm a gentleman and force your mouth around my dick."

I wanted to tell him he was a misogynistic asshat and that I'd really rather die than do as he threatened but that seemed rather counter-productive and also something I'd mentioned at least half a dozen times already. He knew well enough how I felt about him. In fact, he seemed determined to make him hate him as much as I possibly could. So I slammed my lips together and tried to pretend that what he was throwing down wasn't working at all.

Some time later, I was jerked awake suddenly when my left arm flew upwards and smacked me hard across the face.

"What the fuck," I shrieked, my eyes flying open. Edward sat next to me, our chained hands lying between us, smirking obnoxiously.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Apparently we're here, though god knows where that is. The godforsaken middle of nowhere it seems. Emmett won't tell me anything else."

This was the most Edward had ever volunteered to say to me that wasn't technically an insult. While he'd theoretically just forced me to hit myself, I decided that we were making progress regardless, and I smiled sluggishly at him as I struggled to wake up.

"Well, that's a huge astonishment considering that he _kidnapped _you," I replied. "Where is he anyway?"

"'Preparing the house,'" Edward said, jerking my arm upwards again so he could make air quotes. "Because apparently you're a 'flight risk.'"

"Hell yes I am," I mumbled underneath my breath. Using my free hand, I tried to tame my hair into some semblance of something, but I gave up. It was hopeless. Alice had been trying for bedhead before we'd even left the house, and by now, I was about ten stages past sexy.

Emmett opened the side door of the van and I wasn't above taking a few gulps of fresh air as it poured into the cabin. "Time to go, kiddies. And just so you know, we're in the middle of nowhere and it's 4 in the morning, so unless you want to wander around alone and lost, I wouldn't recommend making a break for it."

I made a face. "I couldn't anyway. I'm still _harnessed _to Edward here. Are you actually expecting us to walk like this?"

He didn't say anything, just pulled the door farther open. "Fine," I retorted.

"Flight risk, remember, Swan?" Edward said.

"I'm surprised you even remember my last name, considering the state you were in when I found you."

"I'm only remembering it so I can make your life hell when we get out of here," he said.

I jerked on his arm—deciding he needed a taste of his own medicine—as I wobbly descended from the van, my feet and legs moving clumsily from the lack of recent activity. He stumbled forward, pulled by the momentum of my own body. I refused to feel sorry as he grabbed at the side of the side of the van to prevent face planting into the gravel driveway.

I could see the shape of a cabin up ahead at the top of the driveway, but there were no lights, not even in the surrounding countryside. Wind whistled through the trees surrounding the house, and I knew Emmett hadn't been lying. We were far, far away from anyone who could hear or see us. Fear began to coalesce hard and fast inside me. I had to remind myself that Edward did appear to trust Emmett, and that hopefully, we'd get out of here totally unscathed and soon.

"Let's go," Emmett barked again, the strain and stress of the entire situation clearly evident in his voice. As a reluctant pair, Edward and I stumbled forward towards the cabin.

We were almost to the front door when I saw the flag, flapping in the breeze, set back almost behind the cabin. It was so dark that I almost couldn't make out the colors of the flag, but as Emmett opened the door and guided us in, I managed to get a clearer look as the light from inside spilled out. It was yellow crossed with red, with a single red hand on a white shield background. I thought it looked rather familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"Look at that flag," I whispered to Edward, hoping that Emmett couldn't hear me. "Do you recognize it?"

Edward glanced up just as the door closed behind him. I wondered if he'd had time to see it, but when turned to me, his eyes glowing fiercely in the muted light of the small hallway. He nodded, and I wasn't sure if he was agreeing that he'd seen it, or if he'd recognized what it was.

"You saw it," I hissed. "What is it?"

"Don't you wish you knew?" he smirked.

"That's why I asked, dumbass," I retorted, and he just nodded enigmatically.

"I know it," he finally said, looking dismayed and yet not very surprised. "It's the Red Hand of Ulster."

That hard knot inside my belly tightened, and I realized that _this _was the moment I realized just how bad of a decision this had been. Puking, insufferably obnoxious rockstars were one thing—seeing that flag made me realize that the situation I'd gotten myself into was so much worse than that.

* * *

**Chapter 8 is also going to be Edward/Bella. Chapter 9, we'll revisit our motley crue back at the ranch.**


	9. Dealing with the Devil

**AN: Yay for early posting! I'm at my mommy's and we're going to watch Dancing with the Stars, so yeah. . .good news for y'all.**

**Thanks to JosieSwan for being an awesome beta and you should read her story, In the Shadow of Ursa Major. It's wonderful :)**

**Playlist updated on my profile.**

* * *

**Edward**

I had been waiting for this day for a really fucking long time; the day when all of my father's baggage would end up on my doorstep. I'd only caught the smallest glimpse of the flag earlier, and that had been hours before, but I felt as if it was burned onto my retinas. Even with my eyes closed, I could see it flapping in the breeze, taunting me with everything that my father had been—and everything that I could never be.

I'd believed that I'd long since made peace with the fact that he'd been devoted to a cause that he'd died for, and that instead of me martyring myself equally, I stood on a stage, singing songs that could be construed as only vaguely emblematic of what he believed in. I let my head drop into my hands, resting on my knees, and wished that when this moment came, I felt marginally more ready to face the men who had stood by him on his final day. Instead, all I felt was a deep, gnawing sense of inequality and something almost shameful. I'd always believed, falsely maybe, that I'd been doing his memory a service by singing what I did. But, when suddenly faced with the possibility of answering for what I'd done, all I wanted to do was disown the past. All of it.

If I'd had any doubts that this was potentially serious, they'd been dispelled when I'd seen the Red Hand of Ulster. Brit Bitch hadn't known it was serious until Emmett had locked us into the small room we sat in now, and I remembered the small panicked sound she'd been unable to totally muffle. I'd seen her frightened gaze drift from the bare, stripped floors, to the plain cot with bare mattress, up to the bars on the high windows, and I knew she'd seen the room for what it was.

A fucking jail cell.

Like it or not, we were now imprisoned together. And, unsurprisingly, neither of us liked it very much.

She'd been silent since Emmett had shut and locked the door on us, his face grim and determined. The windows were boarded over and there was no light, so we'd been sitting in the dark for what could have been hours now. I'd wordlessly conceded the bed to her, a strangely gentlemanly act for me. I didn't like her—in fact, it was entirely probable I hated her, but I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for her. She'd thought she was going to get the scoop of a lifetime, and instead, she was going to be lucky if she came out of this unscathed.

As for myself, I felt coldly sober for the first time in what must have been weeks. It had been probably twelve hours since I'd had any alcohol to numb the circus of my reality, and now, I thought as I opened my eyes into the dark hole of the room and felt something deep and dark and far too painful begin to surge inside me, I knew I needed the anesthetic power of it more than ever.

I felt her eyes on me, which wasn't really a surprise, because the Brit Bitch was always watching, but not the way some girls stared at me. She clearly didn't want to fuck me; instead, she looked at me as if she'd like to peel my skin back like an orange, and watch my secrets scatter to the floor.

"The Red Hand of Ulster," she stated, not questioned, her voice small and unsure. "What is that exactly?"

"Didn't do your journalistic research, huh?" I felt stripped of my usual defenses, and the witty, snappy comeback was all I had left to fight with.

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, unevenly. Despite that I was pretty sure I hated her fucking guts, I had to give her a little credit—most girls would have been hysterical by now. As far as I could tell, she hadn't even shed a tear yet. But that, I decided, didn't necessarily mean she was brave. Since she _was _British, it was more likely she was just cold and unfeeling. Hard all the way through.

And she would have to be, I thought, to be here. To deal with all of this shit. Maybe it was better this way; worked in her favor that she didn't have a marshmallow soft core that I'd have to go to bat to protect. I wasn't her white knight and she wasn't my damsel to rescue. She'd gotten herself into this mess, and she'd have to get herself out.

"I did, but there's this great big. . ._blank_ when it comes to your past. I don't even think that Edward Cullen is your real name."

"Bingo," I said wryly. "And blank is the way it's going to stay."

"You didn't just magically appear. Someone, somewhere created you. Two someones, in fact."

I turned towards her, the darkness no doubt hiding the anger in my expression, but she couldn't help but hear it in my voice. "Thanks for the biology lesson, Brit Bitch. Perhaps you'd like to give me a real life demonstration?"

Walls, I thought to myself, bricks made of nasty words and mortar made of sarcasm. I laid them down as hard and fast as I was able. I hated this terrible, aching vulnerability, and I hated even more that she was here to witness it. Of course, it was more likely than not that she had no idea I felt at all. Which was exactly the idea.

"No, thank you," she said so stiffly I wouldn't be surprised if she had a pole sticking up her ass all the way up to her chin.

"Seriously, I think it's possible that your pussy is in danger of molding over. You ever take it out to play?"

I felt rather than saw the glare that she shot my direction. "You know, I don't expect any consideration or kindness," she said bitterly, "but that was really low, even for you."

I metaphorically rubbed my hands together in anticipatory glee at how low I could really drag her. She thought we were at rock bottom, but she had no idea how much farther she could slide. Once you started, after all, it was all just a slippery slope.

"You really want to know about the Red Hands of Ulster?"

She hesitated, the shadows of the room dancing across the planes of her face. I'd thought she was pretty fucking hot when I'd walked in after the show and found her sitting on the couch like a fucking present. But now, she just looked young and naïve. And cold. Like an ice princess.

I was just going to play with her a little at first, I decided, just to give myself something to do so that the boredom wouldn't eat me alive. Or maybe so I wouldn't have to think about what awaited me here. Destiny was a difficult thing to correctly categorize, after all, and I didn't feel much like agonizing over it.

I was Edward Cullen, and I didn't fucking agonize over shit.

"Come here," I ordered, but she didn't reply. Just sat there in silence, looking at me with the blankest, coldest expression she'd worn yet.

"Well?" I demanded. "Did you hear me or are you suddenly deaf as well as dumb?"

"I'm not your slave," she snapped out.

"You will be." It was cocky as hell, but I knew that if I wanted to bother, I could have her eating out of my hand in no time. There were no distractions here, except that deep gnawing worry that we were ultimately screwed, and there was nothing like a good healthy dose of old-fashioned fear to drive a young, vulnerable girl into the arms of a big, strong man.

Nevermind that the big strong man was also locked up and had no intention of playing rescuer. And that I was sure that once the Red Hands actually arrived, there wouldn't be any question of me staying in here with her. My father had been one of them, and they wouldn't betray his memory by treating me like a prisoner. I was the prodigal son, finally come home.

"Hell will freeze over first." She didn't sound quite as convinced, though, and I was still confident I'd be able to wear her down. After all, it wasn't like she could run away.

I let her ponder that for a few minutes in the black hole of silence that was our jail cell. There was nothing like feeling utterly alone to force you to cling to the only human contact available. And, let's face it, while she wasn't exactly Rosalie Hale, she didn't look half bad at this point. I was kind of notorious for fucking anything female that moved, and well, while I wasn't exactly proud of it, I had spent a majority of the car ride checking out her legs. Plus, there was something sick and yet ironically right about breaking her and bending her to my will.

"So you came along for information. From me. Considering what you've already done to get it, I wonder what you'd _still_ do for a few choice morsels. About the Red Hands, for example." I lowered my voice to a hushed, gravely whisper and carefully, silently scooted closer to the bed. Her pale outstretched legs gleamed in the small shafts of moonlight from the upper windows.

I heard her lick her lips once, her tongue snaking out and wetting the dry surface. "I don't know what you mean," she said, and I could hear just how unsure she was. I was almost disappointed at how easy it had been to force her to relent. I'd expected better from her.

"I'll tell you," I clarified. "For a price."

One, two, _three _beats passed, the room so completely silent that I swore I could hear my heart thumping with anticipation. "Fuck you," she snarled suddenly. "I'll never be your fucking whore. Go to hell."

"You're already there, sweetheart," I laughed mercilessly. "And in case you think this is the lowest you've sunk, we're just getting started."

_One_, I counted silently in my head.

_Two._

_Three_.

"I'd rather rot and die first," she said, and it was so horribly predictable, I almost rolled my eyes. I decided I'd have to do something out of the box to jar a different reaction out of her. Outrage was so classic and so fucking _boring_.

"You're not trying very hard," I sighed. "You've got to insult me and actually _mean_ it."

"Oh, I do," she insisted sarcastically. "I mean every fucking word. I hate you. I wasn't sure I did before, but I really think you've managed to win me over for good."

"Oooooh," I marveled with fake interest, "you mean to say that at one point, you were actually what you claimed to be—a _fan_?"

"Guilty as charged." She stopped, hesitated, and I forced myself to wait her out. The goods were sometimes worth a little hard-won patience. I just hoped she was going to bring a gruesome enough confession to make it worth my while.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and so quiet I had to strain to hear her even in the totally silent house. "When I was 12, my dad died. We lived together, before, in Manchester. My mom. . .she wasn't exactly around much."

She drifted off, as if she was suddenly lost in her own thoughts and in what it had felt like to lose him. I would have asked her, except I already knew. At least, I thought with a burning vindictiveness, she'd known him for the twelve years.

I opened my mouth to make some crack about her dad being British and therefore not exactly being a total loss when a sudden, acidic pain sliced me deep.

Jesus fucking Christ, I thought, almost reaching for my stomach, where I was sure I was bleeding. Except that it hadn't been real—I'd only imagined it the blood pumping hot and sticky and wet from my gut. Inexplicably I hated her even more for bringing up the one subject that I couldn't seem to shake since coming to this place—the past. And not just the recent past, filled with groupies and whiskey and nights of hot, endless pleasure. Instead, her words were a sharp, stinging slap of reality, just as the flag had been. There was a past that I'd buried because I didn't want to face it, but at the same time, I'd never been able to escape.

"He died," she continued, and I heard her swallow hard, and I glanced over to see her throat working a little. Maybe I'd see a tear fall and know that Brit Bitch wasn't quite made of stone after all. "I went to live with my mother and her new husband in California. I was miserable, and your music saved me."

"You have good taste then," I replied gruffly. For all I was convinced that I was the second coming of Jimi Hendrix, listening to such unvarnished respect for what my music had been was hard. Hard because I was pretty damn sure that I'd managed to annihilate all that respect by now.

"I did, yes. But not anymore." She looked up at me then, eyes intent on my face, and I saw she'd scooted closer to the edge of the bed, until she could almost reach out and touch my arm. "I still like this washed up singer and his even more washed up band."

"I'm not washed up," I growled at her. "And neither is Athair. Not even fucking close."

She shrugged, her thin shoulders moving against the tattered thin purple tank she wore. "You're getting there. It'll happen eventually."

I wanted to gnash my teeth and yell at her and throw something and insist she take it back, but then I remembered that her opinion, no matter how shitty, didn't fucking matter. She was just a bitchy, ice cold girl who couldn't write her way out of a paper bag.

I decided I'd been wrong to try to bait her. All that would do was prove to her that even in some small way, I cared about what she thought—even if I only cared enough to destroy her. Apathy was a much better emotion to strive for, I concluded. I would simply ignore her. Watch her stew and sulk in the silence of the empty room and see how long it would take her to go fucking mad with loneliness and boredom.

* * *

It could have been hours later, when the door finally opened, and I heard Bella squeak with surprise as a wedge of light flooded the room. Because the windows were covered, it was impossible to even tell the time of day, but from the brief glimpse of sunlight, I thought it might have been the middle of the afternoon.

"You need to get cleaned up," Emmett said to me gruffly, and held a hand out to help me to my feet. Yes, he'd taken me from my meaningless existence without my permission, but then, if he'd asked for it, I would have run as far as I could. Not necessarily from the men themselves, but from the ideals that they represented—the legacy they thought I would fulfill. Really, I could be angry at him, or I could just deal with the fact that he'd brought me here and I no longer had a choice about my whereabouts.

Escape, I thought, was pointless. There was nowhere I could go where the Red Hands wouldn't find me eventually.

So I took his hand and allowed him to help me to my feet. Emmett turned to Bella, who was poised at the edge of the bed as if she'd like to make a run for it. Unfortunately, we both knew that wasn't going to happen.

"You stay here. I'll come get you in a minute."

She slumped back onto the bed, and I could see the hopelessness warring with relief that she too would be allowed access to the bathroom. Emmett might be a backstabbing dick, but at least he was a humane one.

"You know," Emmett started, but I held up a hand as we exited the room.

"I know what you're going to say. I won't run. I won't even try. So don't worry about it."

He shook his head, clearly surprised by my total acquiescence. "And here I thought it was hard to kidnap people."

"Not hard when you kidnap someone who doesn't care." The last thing I wanted to tell him was that now that the moment had come for me to come to terms with my father's past, I wasn't about to turn away. I was filled with a twisted and inexplicable need to drive the knife into me as far as it would go. And I couldn't do that if I ran away.

Despite what I'd said, Emmett still stood guard outside the tiny bathroom door as I peed and showered and brushed my teeth. The dried sweat on my skin had been itchy, and while I'd resented Bella's comment about me smelling, I didn't think she was entirely off the mark. Personal hygiene was a sore point with me, and I was glad that Emmett wasn't going to be a jerk about letting us have a little private time. As much as I wanted to torture Brit Bitch, I also didn't want to have to take a dump in front of her.

There was a clean pair of jeans and another t-shirt. I couldn't help but notice that while Emmett provided me a pair of socks, there were no shoes. Whether he believed me or not, he certainly wasn't going to take any risks, and I wasn't sure if I blamed him. I didn't know much about the Red Hands, but from their reputation, I knew that they didn't precisely appreciate changes to their well-laid plans. If Emmett let me escape, they wouldn't be too pleased. I had a feeling that adding Bella to the mix was going to cause enough problems as it was.

I opened the bathroom door and steam escaped out. Emmett was standing there still, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "You done?" he asked.

I nodded and then hesitated. I wanted to ask, but I didn't want him to think that I cared at all what would happen to Bella. She'd asked herself along, after all, and so what happened to her was none of my concern. But I couldn't help the question that escaped me. Thank god she wasn't in hearing distance, or I would never have voiced the concern.

"You're going to let Bella. . ." I trailed off, hating that I cared enough to ask. It was only humane, I told myself. She was a human being; not an animal. Kidnapped or not.

"Of course," Emmett said, leading me back to the room and retrieving Bella. He watched her carefully as she slid off the bed and the door closed behind them, leaving me again in the dark.

As I sat back against the wall, stretching my legs in front of me, I tried in vain not to think of what she was doing at this very moment. My mind—and my dick for that matter—had different ideas. Even if I found her personality fundamentally fucking unpalatable, she was still attractive, and I couldn't help but letting my thoughts drift towards her naked in the shower, water beading on her naked skin.

The ensuing visions were so stimulating—hell, she had lovely skin, all white and soft—that I was a few notches above worked up when the door opened again.

Her hair was still damp and fell around her clean, makeup free face in dark, limp waves. Her clothes were the same—clearly Emmett hadn't been prepared to clothe her as well as myself—but they were neater, straightened, and if it was even possible, the outfit was even hotter now than it had been before.

It made no sense, but since this whole fucking thing made no sense, I suppose I shouldn't have been all that surprised that I was harder for her than ever. And she walked past me, nose in the air, face expressionless, as if I didn't even exist.

Even though I'd decided to play this very same game with her, it still rankled when she did it to me. She'd forced Emmett to bring her so that she could interrogate me about my music, but now had decided to give up on any extracting any useful information? I decided that was just bullshit and I was going to call her on it. She was just angry I'd been ignoring her and was attempting to freeze _me _out in a moronic attempt to punish me.

But I was Edward Cullen, and I had something she wanted desperately. We both knew it—I just had to remind her of that small fact.

I was standing up when another fact hit me. I had something she wanted, and while I might hate it, she _also _possessed something that was of some basic interest. Maybe, I thought, as I got to my feet, and walked the few steps to where she sat at the end of the bed, brushing through her damp hair with her fingers, it was time to do some bargaining.

"Feels good to be clean, doesn't it?" I asked casually, as if being kidnapped and dragged into the middle of nowhere was an everyday occurrence for me.

Bella looked up in surprise, as if she was completely astonished that we were still in the same room together. She might be a bitch, I decided, but she wasn't half bad as an actress. "I guess," she said noncommittally.

She could pretend she didn't want to talk all she wanted to, but I knew better. "So I've been thinking," I began, and she cut me right off, like a hatchet to the knees.

"Well that must have been a unique experience for you." After the cutting remark, she went right back to her hair, as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire fucking room. I was beginning to get annoyed, but decided to mask it and channel my frustration into getting her fucking attention.

"Would I know your blog?" I asked again.

She looked up wide-eyed and surprised. "Um, hell no. It's not exactly on top of everyone's radar."

"Which is why you need this," I finished smoothly, her desperation beginning to make a hell of a lot more sense.

She shrugged, again pretending to not be all that interested in the conversation we were only kind of having. "I wrote a terrible review of your last album. It was apparently rather inadvertently hilarious, and became kind of an underground sensation. But the rest of the blog is terrible."

I wanted to be offended that she'd capitalized off my epic fail of an album—fuck, I _was _offended—but that particular emotion wouldn't get me anywhere. So I kept my mouth shut about it, no matter how much I was dying to tear her self-worth into tiny pieces.

"I thought," she continued, scooting backwards until her back hit the wall, "that maybe if I was really careful to keep the blog totally impersonal, totally objective, it would make it better somehow. That it would legitimize it. But instead, it's just boring as hell."

"Music isn't objective," I said, being probably far nicer than I needed to be. I sat down on the edge of the bed, a careful enough distance from her that she wouldn't feel threatened. I intended to get a lot closer, but she was a bit skittish, and I didn't want to push her away. "You can't force it to be."

"I know," she said, looking down at her skirt and picking at section of fraying threads. "I'm just not sure what to do instead."

"You'll figure it out. After all, you seem to be pretty fucking determined."

"That's true enough," she replied wryly. "I was determined enough to make it happen, even though in the end my plan was a total disaster. You haven't told me a thing, and I'm not dumb enough to think that you will."

There was my opening. I wanted to jump all over it, but I knew human nature better than to appear too eager. Let her think that I was just as hesitant as she would be.

"Well," I said slowly, "that's not entirely true. I might relax those rules just a little."

Her reaction proved that in the last twenty four hours she'd begun to figure out who the real Edward Cullen was. "And what do I have to do?"

I couldn't help but smirk at her. It was good to be so predictable, especially in this. "I have a little bargain in mind. A trade, you could say."

"And what would that be?" She looked downright suspicious, which confirmed my hunch that she was way too intelligent for her own good—or for mine.

"I have something you want—namely, information. About Athair, about me, about the music. And you have something I want . . ." I trailed off, letting my eyes sweep up her outstretched legs, past the tiny denim skirt, to the purple tank top that exposed more than it hid.

"No," she answered quickly and immediately, but there wasn't much fire or heat in the words. "Absolutely no."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. The offer stands, though, however long we're in this godforsaken room."

"I don't need time to think about it. The answer's always going to be no." Her voice was clipped, but not offended. Despite her words, I knew she'd think about it—after all, she had nothing _but _time to sit here and consider all the possibilities. And while she might pretend to be a frigid, sexless bitch now, I'd had my hands on her at the House of Blues, and she'd been hot and ready for me to do whatever I wanted with her. It was only a matter of time before she gave in to the inevitable.

* * *

**A lot of speculation about the Red Hands of Ulster. No, they are not a real group, but in 2010, despite the Troubles being publically over, there are still rogue, splinter groups of the IRA functioning and almost all of them are militaristic and dangerous. The Red Hands (name taken from the flag), are a group like these. You will find out more about them in upcoming chapters.**

**I've signed up to donate an outtake of this story for the Nashville Relief efforts. You donate a minimum of $5 and get a wonderful array of stories, one shots and outtakes from your favorite authors. I've already started the outtake--and I think it's going to be a really interesting background to the story. I will eventually be posting it here, but probably not until July or August.**


	10. Those Left Behind

**AN: Thanks for all your lovely reviews and feedback.**

**Thank you to those of you who wrote me about your own experiences with the Troubles in Ireland. I was so touched to hear your personal take on the story.**

**Playlist updated. Thanks go to TheEdwardEmmett who helped me with research and JosieSwan for being the best hand-holder a girl could hope for.**

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**Rosalie**

I knew something was wrong the second I slid the keycard through the reader and opened the heavy mahogany door to Emmett's room. I hadn't expected him to be back yet—there was a very specific reason I was here early, after all—but my eyes first took in the neatly made, empty bed, and then the even emptier dresser where Emmett's duffel had sat only this morning, and I felt an odd, painful quivering deep in my stomach.

He had . . .left.

The hard plastic of the card in my hand dug into my palm and I had to force my fingers to relax so I wouldn't cut myself deep enough to draw blood. Words pounded in my head, matching the panicked thumping of my heartbeat, until they seemed to mesh and collide together.

_Emmett left . . ._

_Emmett left . . ._

_Emmett left . . ._

I squeezed the card again, and wished the physical pain could block out the emotional trauma of the final word that my brain tauntingly added to the end of each phrase: Emmett left _you_.

_. . . you._

_. . . you._

_. . .you._

Even though I was sure that somewhere, in some hidden, fucked up place, I had been expecting him to do just that, the reality of it hurt more than I wanted to acknowledge. I had trusted him; I had _believed _him when he'd promised that he would care about me. When he'd admitted that his feelings for me had existed while I'd been busy slipping down Edward's vortex of destruction, I'd been so fucking sure that nothing I could do would ever drive him away.

I didn't want to think that it had all been lies and ploys to get into my pants. After all, he hadn't even _wanted _that. Or maybe he had. Maybe I would never know.

He'd insisted he wanted to be different; an ironic twist because now he was _exactly _like all the others.

I'd been left before, more times than my pride or my heart cared to remember, but there was something particularly wrenching about this departure, I decided, as I stood there, staring numbly at the empty room. Maybe because he was the one man that I'd never expected it from. After all, he'd stuck by me while I'd done everything I could to debase myself with Edward, and I had thought that after that, nothing I did could ever dissuade him from caring about me.

I'd been wrong.

I knew I couldn't stand there any longer and stare at the evidence of Emmett's abandonment, and so I turned to go, not sure what I would do now that everything I'd hoped for was gone. Maybe, I thought bitterly, it was time to go crawling back to Edward after all. He'd told me I would, and it seemed only fitting now. My hand tightened around the door handle and then I saw its reflection in the mirror above the empty dresser—a white envelope lying innocuously on the polished wood.

It was unaddressed, but I knew as I stood in front of it, the promise of the door momentarily abandoned, that it was mine. Emmett had left me a note full of the reasons why he'd felt it was necessary to leave and not say goodbye. I almost left it unopened and unread because I wasn't sure I could bear a detailed list of all the ways I'd failed to keep him here with me.

In the end, however, that destructive, masochistic side of me that Gianna was so desperately trying to repair wouldn't let me ignore Emmett's last words.

With shaking hands, I ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet. He'd written it with sloppy, hurried writing, as if he'd only had moments to do this before he was inevitably jerked away—or as if he hadn't intended on leaving me anything at all until the very last second and he'd taken pity on me.

It was very short, only a few lines. My eyes swim with unshed tears and I had to stop and blink them away before I could see out the individual letters. The words refocused and my breath caught in my throat as I read.

_Rosalie—_

_By now, you know that I've left. Not because I want to leave you, but because I have no other choice. Powers that I have zero control over have exercised their rights and forced my hand. Remember that you promised and remember that I'll be back._

_Emmett_

I stared at the words for a long, long time. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. In my head, I replayed the conversation we'd had only the night before, when Emmett had extracted the promise that I hadn't understood.

Note or no note, I didn't exactly understand any better, but at the very least, he hadn't left because of me. He hadn't wanted to leave at all. The pressure in my chest lifted a miniscule amount, and I felt better—better but increasingly worried.

What were the "powers" and what "rights" did they have over Emmett? For most girls, these questions would have been answered by long sleepless nights, endless questioning of their best friends, and ultimately never knowing the true _why_.

Fortunately, I was my father's daughter and I had access to resources that most girls never did. Swallowing hard, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a number quickly, before I could change my mind. Emmett had made me promise that I wouldn't get involved—that I would absolutely stay out of whatever it was that hounded him—but I couldn't help but feel that keeping my promise would be a worse betrayal than breaking it. Emmett needed help, and I was well-connected and wealthy; there was nothing to stop me from doing whatever I could to at least find out _why _he had been forced from my side.

"John Tyler." The voice that answered the phone was clipped and professional—emotionless. I had heard my father praising the man for years for his amazing ability to uncover anything, and I was about to put all that to the test.

"This is Rosalie Hale. I need some information on a man named Emmett McCarty, lately from Boston, Massachusetts. Personal bodyguard and head of the security detail for Edward Cullen."

There was silence on the other end, as the man wrote down the necessary information. "And I need it fast," I added. Whatever Emmett was mixed up in, I instinctively knew it was dangerous and my heart ached for him. I wanted him safe and with me. We'd already wasted so much time coming together; I didn't want to lose him just as I'd found him.

"Anything in particular, Miss Hale?"

"Someone has . . .leverage on Mr. McCarty. I want to know what it is."

"Give me an hour." I heard a click and a dial tone, and I let the phone drop to the bed and I curled up next to it, my eyes never leaving the dark screen. I just hoped that John Tyler was half as good as my dad swore he was because I was putting all my faith and Emmett's safety and our future happiness in his hands.

Forty six minutes later, my phone rang loudly and I jumped, my eyes flying open. Throwing myself across the bed, I grabbed it and held it to my ear.

"This is Rosalie Hale."

"John Tyler here. I have some interesting information for you, Miss Hale. Would you like me to courier it to you or give you the high points over the phone?"

"Both," I demanded. I felt suddenly lightheaded and breathless, like I might faint. Gripping the phone tighter, I dug through my purse for a pen. Turning Emmett's note over, I waited for the PI to continue.

"Mr. McCarty was a doctoral candidate in history at Boston University in 2007 when he started making rather large bets with several notorious bookies."

"Bets? Gambling?" The Emmett I knew was rational and logical and was the least likely gambler I'd ever met. Clearly, there was a lot I needed to learn about him.

"Sports betting. Large amounts, as I said. But he managed to stay afloat and out of debt until 2008."

"What happened in 2008?" I asked, chewing the pen cap nervously.

"Mr. McCarty bet $25,000 that the Boston Red Sox would win the World Series."

I took a deep shaky breath. I remembered that series. Boston had gone down hard-to the Tampa Rays in the ALCS. They certainly hadn't made it to the World Series. And they definitely hadn't won. "And then?"

I practically heard Tyler's shrug over the phone line. "There were threats."

A wave of nausea had me gripping my stomach. I had heard things about gamblers who didn't pay their debts. But Emmett wasn't missing any fingers or toes and he didn't walk with a limp. I hadn't seen him naked yet, but I didn't think he was scarred. I _hoped _he wasn't scarred. "But they were only threats," I stated.

"Threats only, yes, as far as I saw. Then they 'sold' his debt to another group—a much shadier group than the bookies, I might add."

"Shadier?" My empty stomach roiled in protest. What could possibly be worse?

"I could only find out the name. My contacts clammed up when I even mentioned it; I can only imagine what they do, or who they're involved with."

"The name?" I shut my eyes tight and wished I was feeling something other than utter fucking panic at John Tyler's obvious hesitation to tell me what had befallen Emmett.

"The Red Hands of Ulster."

"They're a gang?"

"Not exactly. My sources—when they agreed to speak about them at all—said they were deep underground, mostly in Ireland, but had started moving to Canada recently."

"Ireland? So what, they're IRA?" I flippantly asked.

The silence on the other end of the line sent chills down my spine. I was beginning to understand Emmett's desperate request that I promise to stay out of whatever shit storm had consumed him and all his good intentions.

"Miss Hale," Tyler said, then hesitated. "I shouldn't say this—it's not my place to say it—but I know your father well, we've worked together for many years, and he wouldn't want you to get mixed up with these people. They're extremely dangerous."

For the first time since I'd opened the door to the empty room, I felt tears begin to well inside me and I hung onto the phone like a lifeline. "Tell me the rest."

He sighed. "If you insist. All evidence points to the fact that Mr. McCarty was told to get a job working for Mr. Cullen, and make sure that he trusted him. And from my own research, it's clear that Mr. Cullen isn't who he says he is either."

That particular fact, I thought despairingly, was the last thing I'd expected to hear. "Edward isn't?" I'd known, instinctually, that something had forced Emmett down to Edward's level, but the knowledge that Edward himself was a fraud was rather interesting.

"You know his mother . ." Tyler continued, and I interrupted him.

"Of course I know his mother. She doesn't interest me," I snapped, my patience totally fraying.

"Would it interest you to know that Mr. Cullen's absentee father is actually dead? Or that he was reputedly a ruling member of the Red Hands of Ulster?"

Horror bitchslapped me right in the face. The situation was beginning to make rather twisted sense, but that didn't mean I liked the circumstances anymore. Emmett, I decided, had gotten in way over his head. I only wished that he had trusted me enough to confide what was going on, instead of forcing me to promise I'd stay out of it.

"Thank you, Mr. Tyler," I said politely, distantly. His job was done here; there was no need to continue to play protector when that position was completely unnecessary. I was a Hale, and therefore completely (mostly) capable of taking care of myself.

"I'll courier over the information to the hotel in Boston," he said curtly, clearly upset that I had done everything but take his advice to leave the matter alone.

"Thank you." I clicked the end button on my phone and stared blankly ahead, not sure what to think. Emmett, blackmailed by the Red Hands of Ulster? Edward's father a member? I had a difficult time imagining Esme Platt ever involved with anyone associated with such a group, but then, she had been young too, at one time. Young and stupid, just like me.

My phone rang again, and I nearly rolled my eyes at Tyler's impertinence. I'd dismissed him—if he'd decided to call back to further lecture me on the danger of involving myself with this rogue group, I was going to see to it personally that my father had no more use for him.

"Rosalie," I barked into the receiver. "What do you want?"

"Rosalie, it's Carlisle. You need to come to the House of Blues. There's been . . ." Carlisle's voice trailed off and I could hear both panic and distress in his voice. Something had happened. Something that was both connected and disconnected from Emmett's sudden departure. I was beginning to get a very bad feeling indeed about these Red Hands of Ulster. Whoever the fuck they were.

"I'll be right there," I told him. "I was just at the hotel. . .freshening up." A lie, but it wasn't any of his business that I'd been here to see Emmett. Nobody knew we were involved; or that Edward and I were no longer together. And maybe it was better that way, considering what Emmett was mixed up in. I could operate with a lot more stealth if nobody suspected that I cared if a bodyguard of Edward Cullen's had mysteriously disappeared into the night.

"It's Edward," Carlisle said again, his voice cracking with worry. "He's gone."

I left instructions at the front desk for them to send Tyler's information to the House of Blues as soon as they received it as I had a sinking feeling that whatever Emmett-and to a lesser extent, Edward-was involved with, it had everything to do with the Red Hands of Ulster.

* * *

I found Carlisle in Edward's green room, pacing the floor, talking in hushed, frantic tones into his cell phone. I sat down on the couch to wait for him to tell me what had happened and where he thought Edward had gone. But I already suspected that I knew more than he did. Edward hadn't left; he'd been taken. By Emmett.

"Rosalie," Carlisle said after ending his call, "you got here fast."

I nodded. Once I'd realized the implications of what I knew and Carlisle's phone call, I knew we had no time to lose. "What happened?"

"I came back here, after the show ended, to talk to Edward. We had business to discuss, plans to make, etc. And," Carlisle said, his head falling into his hands, "I wanted to try to talk to him about cutting back." He didn't need to extrapolate on what exactly Edward needed to cut back on because we both knew-booze, women, beating up on random British men.

I knew that Carlisle felt as if he'd failed Edward. He'd been a star himself-not nearly as bright as Edward's-but a star nonetheless, though he'd given all that up a number of years ago to become a manager instead. He couldn't have been more than 45, and yet he was still undeniably hot, if you cared enough to look, which I really didn't. I saw Carlisle as Edward's father figure. A failed father figure, yes, but a father figure nonetheless, and it squicked me out to think of him as possible romantic material. But regardless, he'd managed to hold onto his looks long after everyone had expected them to fade. His blond hair was still thick and untouched with gray, his blue eyes were bright and ageless, and even though it was lined, his face didn't look old, merely lived in. Sometimes I thought about introducing him to my mother, but even as well-preserved as Carlisle was, he wasn't quite young enough for her tastes these days.

"He wasn't here though, and nobody had seen him-until I had the security guys at the venue check the camera footage outside the dressing room." Carlisle paused and looked at me, and I knew that he was aware of what had happened between Emmett and I and that he didn't want to be one the one to tell me the truth about the man I was involved with. He'd always shiied away from brutal honesty about Edward, and now he was doing it with Emmett, but I was strong enough (I hoped) to take it this time. I wouldn't be the one who needed the saving-I was going to be the white knight, not the damsel this time.

"I know what happened," I said. "Emmett's gone, and he's taken Edward, hasn't he?"

"Taken, kidnapped, I'm not sure what you want to call it. But there's footage of Emmett carrying Edward out, and there's a girl with them-looks kind of like a groupie, but pretty. Innocent looking."

My stomach clenched. I had expected the former but not the latter. I told myself that her presence was a coincidence, there was zero evidence that she was involved in the Edward plot or that even worse, she was involved with Emmett.

"Wait a minute. How do you know about Edward?" I heard the unspoken question in his voice-had I been in on the plot to take Edward too?-and I shook my head.

"Emmett left me a note, in his hotel room, telling me he was leaving. I called my dad's PI, and he uncovered some information, which he's sending over." I hesitated, not wanting to ask because I afraid of the answer, but knowing I couldn't leave the question unsaid. "Do you think we should call the police?"

Carlisle sighed, and I knew he was struggling with the possible implications of getting the police involved as much as I was. He was close with Emmett and had respected and cared about him, and despite what he'd done, sending the cops after him didn't feel right. Maybe, I thought, we could do this privately. I had enough resources available to me to get Edward back without ever having to involve the authorities, but I hesitated to suggest it because I didn't want Carlisle to know just how much my loyalties lay with Emmett instead of Edward.

"No," he said finally. "We're not calling the police."

"Then what do we do?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

"We wait for your information," Carlisle said, leaning back onto the couch and running a hand through his already messy hair. "And we call Edward's mother. She warned me, once, a long time ago, that something like this could happen."

"Edward's mother?" I knew Esme Platt-had known her long before I'd ever met Edward-but when I'd finally met her son, I couldn't believe they were related. Again, I found it difficult to comprehend stuffy, Chanel-wearing Esme Platt involved with the Red Hands of Ulster, but from Carlisle's comment, it appeared she was undeniably aware of their existence and of their interest in Edward.

"She told me if anything unusual ever happened, that I was to call her directly-and absolutely, under any circumstances, _never _to call the police."

Well that explained why we hadn't done the obvious in the situation-and it wasn't becuase Carlisle had some lingering affection for Emmett. I had a feeling that my task of protecting the man I cared about had just gotten tougher, though I definitely thought I could go toe-to-toe with Esme Platt if the situation required it.

"I'm going to call her now," Carlisle said, getting to his feet. He didn't exactly sound thrilled about the prospect and I didn't blame him. Esme was powerful and icy; a single word in her perfect Brahmain accent could cut you down to size-and then some. When I'd been young and I'd seen her lunching with my mother, or circulating at one of my parents' parties, I'd learned to steer clear to avoid a whole litany of corrections on my appearance, on my conversation and on my manners. I could only imagine what Edward had gone through, growing up with such a mother. Really, her rigid ideas of class and behavior explained a lot of why Edward was the way he was.

I could also imagine how much Esme Platt would distrust and disapprove of Carlisle, and the dread in his eyes wasn't all that surprising. But before he could dial the number, we heard a sudden commotion at the door. Someone was yelling in an extremely high-pitched loud voice-shrieking was actually a better term-and I could hear low male voices arguing, but I couldn't make out the exact words.

Carlisle walked over to the door and opened it, only to come face to face with a small girl, tiny and willowy, with cropped black hair and undeniably chic clothes that she wore with effortless grace. She might have been small, but she was definitely loud. Her face was red as a cherry and she was demanding that she see someone in charge of Athair. Someone who knew Edward Cullen.

"I'm Carlisle Masen, the manager for Athair," Carlisle said smoothly. "What appears to be the problem?"

The girl eyed him up and down as if he were the lowest form of cellular life on the planet. "My friend is _gone_, and I think Edward _took _her."

As the girl spoke, I began to have a very bad feeling about this-an even worse feeling than before, which was really saying something.

"How do you know she was with Edward?" Carlisle asked, his expression tight and blank, giving nothing away about how we knew that there was no possible way Edward could have taken _anything_.

"She came backstage halfway through the show to wait for him. That big security guy gave her a backstage pass or something. She's a music blogger-she only wanted to interview him," she said when Carlisle raised a single eyebrow. We all knew better, of course. The girl might want to believe that Edward gave interviews in his green room, but he and I both knew that the only interviewing happening was whether a girl liked it doggy or reverse cowgirl.

"I think you should come in here and discuss this with me, in private," Carlisle said, taking her by the arm and pulling her into the room with us. He shut the door behind him, and the girl continued to glare at him. It was only then that she noticed my presence and her jaw dropped a little. I was used to the reaction; after all, I was a fairly well known celebrity, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

"This is . . ." Carlisle began to introduce us, but the girl interrupted and walked over and forcefully stuck out her hand.

"Rosalie Hale, I know. I'm Alice Brandon." I extended my own hand reluctantly and was surprised at how firm her grip was and how she met my eyes with zero embarassment or hesitation. She might have been momentarily surprised by me, but she certainly wasn't intimidated.

"So your friend," Carlisle asked casually, "what does she look like?"

"Long brown hair, brown eyes. Short denim skirt, purple tank top. I could sketch her, if you'd like," she offered.

"That's not necessary," Carlisle said, and he sighed heavily. I knew then Alice's friend had been the girl he'd seen in the security footage.

"Do you know what happened to her?" Alice was like a dog with a bone-she was not going to give up until we told her exactly what we knew.

"You should sit down," he said to her. "This is going to come as a bit of a shock, but I don't think your friend was necessarily. . .expected. . .and she interrupted something she wasn't supposed to."

"And what was that exactly?" Alice asked, sitting down primly on the edge of the couch, her intense gray eyes never leaving Carlisle's.

"There was an unanticipated . . .departure of Edward, facilitated by his bodyguard, Emmett McCarty."

"The big guy, with all the muscles," Alice clarified and he nodded.

I couldn't help but notice how Carlisle was desperately trying to use any other word than what had actually happened. No doubt as soon as the truth became obvious, we were going to have a real fight on our hands to keep Alice quiet and prevent her from calling in the authorities to get her friend back. We would somehow have to reassure her that she would be safe until we managed to retrieve the missing pair.

"Bella was involved with the 'unanticipated departure'?" Alice sounded surprised.

"Worse than that, unfortunately. She also appears to have experienced an 'unanticipated departure.'"

Alice's eyes grew wide and her skin, already a beautiful milky shade, turned even whiter. "You mean, she and Edward are. . ."

Carlisle nodded.

"Wow," she said. "I told her she was crazy, but only Bella could manage to get herself kidnapped with Edward Cullen."

"Who said they got kidnapped?" I squeaked, amazed that 1) Alice had managed to connect the dots when Carlisle was being so ridiculously obtuse and that 2) she was so damn calm about it.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Please, 'unanticipated departure'? You don't have to spare me, I'm used to Bella's antics. Though, admittedly, this definitely ranks pretty high on the crazy scale."

"Kidnapped is perhaps a bit strong of a word," Carlisle started to say, but Alice interrupted him again, giving him another 'cut the bullshit' glare.

"Again, I'm not stupid. That's exactly what happened. So what's the plan? I guess we're not calling the cops."

I exchanged wary looks with Carlisle. "Not exactly," I interjected. "It's a . . .unique situation."

Sighing, she got to her feet. "Listen, I appreciate that you're trying to make sure I don't freak out, or panic or call the cops, but a little information-or a _lot _of information-is in order here. Bella is my best friend, practically the only family I have, and I want to make sure she's safe. Personally, I don't care how you get her back, as long as you do. And I have a feeling that you, Rosalie," she said, gesturing towards me, "are going to get better results than any number of Boston uniforms."

"That's the plan," I conceeded. "And you don't even know the half of it. Edward's mother is Esme Platt."

That surprised Alice, and she sat right back down again, her face slack with astonishment. "_Really_? Esme _Platt_?" Alice looked like the kind of girl who would be familiar with a woman who regularly appeared in _Vogue _and _W _and I was right. She knew exactly who Esme Platt was, and apparently I wasn't alone in my surprise that the bad boy of punk was a blood relation to the biggest snob on the planet.

Carlisle glared at me. "That isn't information that most people are privy to," he hissed at me. "Nobody is supposed to know."

It was my turn to roll my eyes at Carlisle, who was rapidly beginning to act less like an ex-rockstar and way too much like my prissy grandmother. "Carlisle, her friend is _kidnapped, _I think that her finding out that Esme Platt is Edward's mother is hardly the end of the world."

"Then you can explain to Esme when her face shows up next to Edward's in _US Weekly_," Carlisle retorted. "Speaking of Esme, I still need to call and inform her that her son is currently missing."

"Actually, he's kidnapped," Alice corrected sweetly, "though I don't think that using that word would probably be a good idea. Try 'unanticipated departure' instead-at least until she can swallow a valium."

Carlisle shook his head, and I thought I could see his mouth quirk into a tiny smile before he turned away and dialed Esme's number. I looked at Alice, who was proving to be far more entertaining than I'd anticipated. "She won't be surprised," I confessed. "At least not valium-surprised. She's the one who made the decision not to call the cops. Or at least she told Carlisle if anything ever happened, _not _to."

Alice digested that comment and then changed the subject. "So you're Edward's girlfriend, huh?" I could see her thoughts on her transparent face-she thought I was spineless and worthless and epically wasting my time on Edward Cullen, who she'd already decided could never commit. Even though I'd yet to tell _anyone _except Gianna that I'd broken it off with Edward, I shook my head.

"I dumped him," I told her. "Last night."

"And yet you're still here," she said, her expression unbelieving.

"Actually, this might be a surprise, but I'm not exactly here for Edward. I'm here for Emmett."

"He's the bodyguard, right?"

I nodded. "We're uh. . .newly involved." I was more than a little wary of divulging this fact, considering that it was highly possible-and also probable-that my lover had taken her best friend, but Alice, while still vibrating on an excessively high frequency, also appeared to be fairly laid back.

I was right, she took the news much better than I'd anticipated. "Well, between the two of us, you were too good for him anyway," Alice confided. "After all, someone who made _People_'s 2009 Best Dressed Listdeserves better than Edward Cullen."

Carlisle returned then, and he looked stressed-even more so than before. I supposed that talking to Esme Platt could definitely add a few tension lines. "She's going to send a car to take us to her house in Hyannis Port. We're not to speak to anyone about Edward being missing-I'll tell the band and the crew that Edward's sick and going with us. I'm canceling the rest of the tour."

"And she'll know what to do?" Alice asked.

I turned to the dark haired girl next to me. "You've never met Esme Platt, so you don't quite understand yet. But you will. Be prepared to meet the strongest force of nature in the world. She's got money and power and is absolutely intractable. Of course," I added, with a honey sweet smile, "that doesn't mean that I'm not going to try to change her plans."

"Rosalie," Carlisle said warningly, but I waved away his concern.

"She's going to start a witch hunt for Emmett, and my job is to make sure that doesn't happen. The plan is to get Edward and Bella back while not condemning Emmett to a lifetime in jail."

"Good luck with that," Carlisle sighed.

* * *

I wasn't surprised to see that the "car" was instead a sleek black limousine. Carlisle didn't appear that surprised either, but then he'd been managing Edward's career almost from day one, and so he had to be rather familiar with the life that Esme Platt led. However unsurprised he was, though, I could tell from the moue of distaste he made as he opened the door for Alice and I that even if he was familiar, he still didn't approve.

"Not a fan of traveling in style?" I asked when Carlisle finally snapped his phone shut, about an hour outside of Boston. He'd been in manager-mode, canceling shows and making arrangements for the storage of equipment. I'd been rather pleased to hear that he'd even given instruction to pay all the suddenly-unemployed staff of Athair's tour rather large severance packages. I'd never had to worry about money, but I knew better than to think that the rest of the world lived the same way I did. Carlisle seemed to understand that particular fact, and I was beginning to suspect that unlike Edward's, his roots weren't exactly gilded.

Carlisle shrugged, and gestured to the luxurious appointments of the limo-soft leather upholstery, muted lighting, a tiny mini refrigerator with an assortment of gourmet drinks and snacks, even a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. I'd grown up around this, but clearly he hadn't. "I'm not really the biggest fan of excess. I don't see how it's necessary or pertinent to happiness."

"Oh, it isn't," I reassured him. "I find that the only reason the luxury is necessary at all is to mask the distinct _lack _of happiness."

"A bandaid," Carlisle murmured, stroking absentmindedly at the leather seat. Clearly there'd been an angle in my confession that he hadn't ever considered. "Interesting."

As for Alice, it was clear that while her clothes were undeniably chic, she too came from a middle class background, and I was impressed at how casually she took the limo. But when we finally pulled up the brightly-lit gated private driveway to Esme's Hyannis Port compound, I could see the cracks in her composure beginning to show. Her hands gripped the edge of the seat hard, and she couldn't tear her gaze away from the flashes of landscaped gardens as we drove up to the main house.

"This is incredible," she whispered, more to herself than to Carlisle and I. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Welcome to how the other .1% lives. No offense to you, Princess," Carlisle said, sending me an only slightly apologetic glance. I shrugged, understanding how easy it was to be jealous of the way that I'd grown up-having every single opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, with none of the worries or any of the normal doubt that plagued most families in America. But then, what Carlisle didn't know was that while outwardly we had it all, Esme and I paid for the excesses in secret, surprising ways.

The limo stopped and the door opened. I slid out first, only to come face to face with Esme Platt herself. I'd expected to meet her across a tea table complete with scones and antique silver and Limoges. I hadn't expected her to meet us herself-how unusually democratic of her.

Despite that I knew she'd recently turned 45, Esme Platt was still lovely, but then I expected she'd still have her looks for a number of years to come. She had the perfect aristocratic bone structure, complete with chiseled cheekbones and the perfect nose that she'd inherited from her equally blue-blooded mother-no plastic surgery required. Her skin was still youthful and her hair perfect, falling in golden chestnut waves from her smooth forehead. I felt Carlisle stiffen behind me. Apparently he too had not expected to see the Queen of the Manor quite so soon, and I saw Esme's green eyes go frosty and cold as she spotted Edward's manager.

Yeah, there was definitely some history there. And some bad blood too, if I wasn't mistaken.

"Rosalie," Esme said, turning back towards me, pasting a sweet, insincere smile on her face. She leaned in, giving me an air kiss on each cheek. "It's so lovely to see you. You look rested."

That was utter bullshit. I hadn't really slept in 48 hours, my hair was a wreck, and I didn't want to know the status of my makeup.

"And Carlisle," Esme said coldly, her smile disappearing. "Good of you to get here as quickly as possible. Now who is this? You didn't mention that someone else would be accompanying you." Those green eyes that missed nothing took in every single thread on Alice's small frame, and I could see from the vaguely judgemental expression that she'd guessed, as I had, that everything she was wearing was a knockoff of a designer original. Clever copies, yes, but still copies.

And if there was one thing that Esme Platt hated more than anything else, it was fakes.

"I'm Alice Brandon," she said, extending her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

I had to give Alice credit for courage under fire, because while she appeared genteel and polite, Esme was like a piranha. If she smelled even a hint of fear, she'd reduce you to a quivering heap of bloody self-doubt. Clearly, Carlisle was familiar with this, because he wrapped a casual arm around Alice's shoulders, and smiled down at Esme. Unlike Esme's saccharine smile, this one made zero pretense of being anything other than territorial.

"It appears that there was a third party privy to the incident that befell Edward. Alice is friends with the girl who was taken with Edward."

That was something Esme hadn't expected, and I had strong feeling that Carlisle had saved this particular salvo for this exact moment, if only to unbalance the woman in front of him.

"Let's go inside," Esme said, regrouping so quickly that I had to give her credit for her poise, even under fire. "We'll have some breakfast."

It wasn't until that moment that I'd noticed the sunrise in the east, and I felt a horrible nauseating gnawing in my stomach. Not hunger exactly, but fear. Fear that Emmett had taken Edward and Bella to places unknown and that they'd been gone for almost twelve hours at this point.

I reached out and clasped Alice's hand, needing reassurance more than food. She smiled up at me, and we walked behind Carlisle and Esme into the house.

"Tell me everything," Esme demanded, as we sat down in a small round table set in the nook next to the kitchen. It was clear this was the informal gathering area of the house, but even then, I couldn't help but be a little impressed. Considering all the summers I'd spent in the Hamptons and in Europe, the house should have been typical, but this was Esme Platt, and nothing she ever did was typical.

Everything was white, including the walls and the wainscotting and even the table. The only spots of color were the mismatched black chairs and the beautiful turquoise blue glass chandelier above our heads. I spooned some scrambled eggs onto my white china plate, and selected a pot of jam from the trio on the table.

Carlisle looked suddenly old and very tired, as he stirred his coffee. The cup looked delicate and out of place in his big hands, rough from all the years of playing the guitar. "There was security footage. They caught Emmett carrying out an unconscious Edward out of his dressing room, followed by a girl that I am fairly sure was Alice's friend Bella."

Esme set down her own cup with a decisive click of china against the lacquered wood of the table. "It was Emmett?"

He nodded, and I felt the dread, momentarily driven into submission by actual nourishment, begin to re-emerge. I took a small bite of jam-smeared toast and waited until the right moment to bring up to Edward's mother that her son was a piece of worthless trash and that I'd finally dumped him, only to hook up with the man that had ended up kidnapping him.

Screw the Kennedys-the real drama in Hyannis Port was happening at this table.

"I have to say, I'm astonished. I thought Emmett was trustworthy," she said, and there was a definite unspoken addition of "_unlike you_" after. Obviously the relationship between Edward's mother and his manager had its own history. Of course, as much as I couldn't see Esme in a relationship with a man involved with the IRA, it was even harder to imagine her befriending an aging, washed up, ex-rockstar.

"He is," I interrupted. Esme looked up, surprised, as if she'd forgotten I was still here. And that was probably true enough, I thought. I knew Esme had always seen me as the perfect accessory to Edward-cultured, rich, and ultimately not enough of a presence to be remembered.

"Rosalie, darling, I'm not sure how you would know. I can't imagine that you've had much contact with the man."

Oh, she had no idea, I thought darkly as I met her inquisitive gaze. "Actually," I corrected her lightly, "I know him well. He was a great comfort, especially during Edward's more. . .creative. . .periods."

Alice bit back a chuckle, and I could even see a small smile threatening to emerge on Carlisle's face. "I don't know what you mean," Esme said smoothly.

"Let's cut through the bullshit," I said with equal grace, the words I used at a cruel juxtoposition to my tone of voice. "Edward was a jerk to me. He cheated on me constantly, he was never nice, and he certainly had no real lasting affection for me. I know you liked that we were dating because I was the kind of woman you could see him with... unlike the parade of groupies. Emmett, despite the unfavorable connotations of this incident, is a true gentleman." I met Esme's eyes guilelessly and smiled sweetly.

She paused, her spoon in her coffee cup hesitating for the briefest of seconds, and I knew that she knew what I'd just said was the truth. Surely Carlisle had told her of his worries. She was his _mother _after all. But when Esme spoke again, her tone of voice was again even, and I couldn't read through the blank mask on her face.

"I've been anticipating this development for some time. I have adequate protection here, in Hyannis Port, and in my houses in Boston and New York. But Edward, on tour, and associating with all sorts of people," she said, her voice betraying only a fraction of her disgust for her son's lifestyle, "he was always in graver danger than I. And it was always Edward they wanted."

"The Red Hands of Ulster?" I asked.

"Yes," Esme said quietly. "They are who have him now. That's why we can't call the police. They would be completely ineffectual against such a group. I have connections. We'll get Edward back."

"And Bella?" Alice asked, her tone of voice almost an exact match for Esme's. I smiled at her, and couldn't help but be a little impressed. She learned _fast_.

"Who is Bella?" Esme asked, a tiny frown appearing between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Even for Esme, she was being obtuse. Maybe, I told myself, you should give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she's worried about her son. Though it was definitely a little late to show any interest in him now.

"She was taken with Edward. She'd gone backstage to interview him for her blog about Boston music. Carlisle said she was with them in the security footage." Alice turned to Carlisle, her manner sweet and unassuming, but I caught the calculation in her gray eyes. "Her mother is going to be especially worried about her. Perhaps we should ask her to join us here. If that would be alright with Ms. Platt, of course."

"Please, call me Esme," Esme said. "And who, pray tell, is Bella's mother?"

Alice smiled so sweetly, but with such anticipation that I tensed. "Didn't I mention Bella's last name? Her mother is Renee Swan."

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**AN: I mentioned in the last chapter that I was donating an outtake of Sins of the Father to Fics for Nashville. Donate a minimum of $5 to this great cause, and you'll receive not only the outtake, but a copy of every fic that is being donated by a list of amazing authors.**

**I couldn't say last chapter who's POV the outtake was in because you hadn't met her yet, but now that you've met my ballbuster Ice Queen Esme, I'm happy to announce that the outtake is about her, and her past-specifically about her past with Edward's father and Carlisle. It will eventually get posted here, but not until mid-summer. I'm putting a link to the Fics for Nashville on my profile.**

**One last note, this story is stretching me as a writer more than I ever dreamt that it would. To prevent burnout and frustration, I'm writing a piece of fluff on the side-called Mistletoe Confessions_. _Yes, it's a Gossip Girl story, but if you've ever seen it, I think you'll enjoy this bit of hilarity. Check it out if you'd like.**


	11. The Demilitarized Zone

**AN: Again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. I was especially touched, considering that most people probably started reading this for the Edward/Bella storyline, and slowly, I am beginning to convert you to enjoying my subplots as much as the main characters.**

**This week is FicsforNashville. Please consider donating, not just to receive the outtake from this story, _Transgressions of the Mother_, but because it's a very worthy cause. Tomorrow there will be a teaser up on the Fictionators website, and like I mentioned last chapter, the entire outtake is about Esme and her past. There's a link on my profile to the livejournal community with instructions on how to donate.**

**Thank you to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, who helped me cut this chapter into two parts when it became epically long. So yes, Chapter 11 will directly continue the conversation that this chapter ends on. It's not technically a cliffhanger, but they're definitely two halves of a whole.**

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**Bella**

I wanted to believe in the best of myself.

I wanted to believe that days, weeks—even _months_—could pass and I wouldn't once waver in my intention to never give Edward Cullen what he wanted.

Of course, we were in the dark, kept in captivity like animals, and it was impossible follow the passage of time. Maybe, I thought despairingly, it had already been months, and thus my quickly eroding morals made sense.

But I knew better than that. I couldn't figure out how long it had really been, but I knew it had only been days. Not weeks. Not months. Certainly not long enough to justify the fact that I wanted to tell Edward that I had changed my mind.

I'd fought against the inclination. I didn't respect myself quite enough to say that I'd fought bravely, but I _had _tried to resist his irresistible pull.

At first, I'd tried just talking to him, hoping that even if he told me nothing, just his voice could keep the demons overwhelming me at bay.

"How long do you think it's been?" I'd asked him, my voice sounding small and uncertain and scared. I had been pretending long enough—it was impossible not to show how terrified I was. And I'd have to be a fucking moron not to be terrified of what could and probably would happen to me.

Edward said nothing. I wondered if he was even awake, but then I'd become aware—as I was undeniably aware of every single minute sound in the utter stillness—of a slight tapping noise. I strained my eyes in the black void of our jail cell, but the view of his hands were blocked by the end of the bed I sat on. I could get closer, I surmised, to see what exactly he was doing, but I shouldn't. I should be mad that he hadn't bothered to answer me.

I should be even more furious that he was even withholding simple conversation because I wouldn't give him any sexual favors. He was a pig. He was an asshole. He was the most insufferable man that I'd ever met.

Of course, I'd never been more fascinated by a human being in my entire fucking life. It wasn't even about _Aiming to Misbehave_ any longer, or really about the music at all. With all this time spent in silent, endless contemplation, my curiosity about the man with me had only grown exponentially. Now, I just didn't want to know why he made the music he did, I wanted to know the why of _him_.

I wanted to know why he was mixed up with these people; why he still trusted Emmett despite all he'd done against him; why he hated British people so much; why he always seemed so god damned alone—even when he was with me.

_Why, why, why, why, why . . ._

The _whys_ of Edward Cullen echoed through my head like shiny metal balls in a pinball machine.

So, despite my best intentions and the better part of myself that insisted I _not _do this, I moved closer. Just a bit, I told myself, just close enough that I could see what Edward did when reduced to utter boredom. This was small beans compared to all the things that I was desperate to know about Edward, but it was better than nothing—which was exactly how much I knew now.

Even after moving a good foot towards the foot of the bed, I couldn't see far enough beyond the edge of the bed. Grimacing in frustration, I scooted closer, hoping that he was so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he wouldn't notice me. He was tapping his finger against the metal frame of the bed—not in a steady rhythm either, but in a syncopated, surprisingly melodious beat. I stared at his finger, so fascinated that I didn't even notice that he was no longer unaware of my intense study.

"Bella," he said with a quiet flash of temper, "what the fuck are you doing over here?" I jumped and glanced away from his finger, to see him looking straight at me.

"I asked you a question," I retorted, "and you ignored me. I just wanted to see what you were doing that was so important you couldn't be bothered to have a conversation with me."

"Having a conversation with you requires me _wanting _to have a conversation with you. And I believe I've already covered what would motivate me to find that particular desire."

I moved back to my original location in a huff, not even bothering to pull my skirt down as it rode up my thighs. As articles of clothing went, this skirt was now on my top ten list of least favorite in my entire lifetime, and every hour that passed bumped it up a little farther on the list. I'd long since decided that it was unbelievably ironic that _this _was what I was wearing when I volunteered to be kidnapped.

"I told you no," I told Edward, and I knew he wouldn't miss that my answer was a little less vehement than it had been before.

"You sure about that still?" he asked, sounding more than a little amused.

"Yes," I spat out. "Now, tomorrow, and in ten years. I'm never going to do that with you."

Silence fell back over the room, and the tapping resumed. I listened hard, trying to decide if the rhythm was one of the songs of his I'd heard before, or if he was making up something on the spot.

I was busy narrowing down possibilities when he actually spoke first. "As far as I can tell, it's been two days. Maybe three."

Only three days, I thought with despair, and I was already thinking of throwing out my much-vaunted moral code and sleeping with the enemy.

"Only three days," I said instead, "of peanut butter and jelly, and already the thought of another sandwich makes me want to puke."

Edward chuckled. "And here I thought that the last thing you wanted to ever discuss was puking."

"Just _your_ puking. That was the single most disgusting display I've ever witnessed. I'm surprised I could ever be hungry after being forced to see _and _listen to that." I shuddered, the images flashing before my eyes again, even as I tried to stop them.

"I don't have to remind you that you wouldn't have had to if you hadn't fucking blackmailed Emmett into coming along."

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the wall, wondering if we were ever going to be able to break the cycle of insults and silence. No matter how agreeable I was or how completely innocuous my comments seemed to be, we always seemed to devolve into the lowest common denominator.

"Have you slept?" I finally asked, even though I already knew the answer. I hadn't even slept, and I was on the bed, for christ's sake.

"Oh yeah. Definitely. I think this floor could double as a feather mattress," Edward responded sarcastically.

"You could have the bed for a little while, if only to get a few hours of sleep," I said graciously, hoping that maybe this gesture could be counted as three quarters of a sexual favor.

"You're ridiculously transparent, you know that right?"

Or maybe not.

"I'm serious," I insisted. "It isn't fair that I get the bed and you get the hard floor."

"You're a woman; you can't handle the floor."

"I'm tougher than I look," I argued. "I could handle it."

There was a beat of silence as he appeared to be considering my offer seriously. Maybe, I thought optimistically, I'd finally gotten through to him.

"Are you giving in here, Swan?" he finally said, and I knew that he was referring not to my offer of a comfortable—or marginally comfortable—bed but instead to _his _bargain.

"Absolutely not." _Maybe_.

"Don't sound so certain or anything," Edward said sarcastically.

"I just think you might be a tad less bitchy if you got some sleep. So really, I'm offering you the bed for purely selfish reasons."

"Men can't be bitchy—we don't have any estrogen."

"Fine," I spit out, "you're acting like your normal charming self. Now get your ass up on this bed now, before I change my mind."

"Eager, are we?" he murmured as I saw the faint outline of him stand up and walk over to where I sat at the edge of the bed. The blurry lines of his body focused as he came closer, and I swallowed hard. I'd only thought as far as making him grateful for my sweet, relatively unselfish gesture. I'd never anticipated that we'd end up in such close proximity with my Edward Cullen resistance at an all-time low.

"Speak for yourself," I retorted as gruffly as I could. I was terrified he'd find out just how close I was to relenting. He was near enough now that I could reach out and brush his arm with my fingers, and I tangled them in the cheap cotton sheet to prevent myself from giving in to the cheap, easy, way-too-accessible thrill.

He took another step closer, and I held up my hand, panic streaking through me. Only one more small movement, and he'd be nearly on top of me, which was not the point at all. "Hold up," I demanded. "I didn't mean that we'd _share _the bed. The floor is perfectly fine for me."

"Actually the floor is hard as hell."

"Whatever," I insisted. "I don't care." I stood up and tried moving past him to the spot he'd been occupying. He probably hadn't thought I was smart enough to realize that he'd positioned himself as far away from me as the small space permitted, but I had—and I was totally following suit. Just for completely different reasons.

But before I could totally move out of Edward's range, I felt his fingers close around my arm and jerk me back. I whirled around, annoyed and secretly thrilled that he'd dared lay a finger on me. "I said no, asshole. Just get some sleep and leave me the fuck alone."

"I'm afraid," Edward said, refusing to let my arm free, "that it's not going to work that way. I'm pretty familiar with the breed of female that says no when they really mean yes. And you've got all the behavioral characteristics, sweetheart. So just give it up. You know you want to." I was close enough to see the cocky grin, and I wanted to smack it off his way too pretty face.

"That desperate for some PG cuddling? I thought I was the only one with estrogen in the room."

His grin spread, and I figured it was just my luck that Edward apparently considered this higher form of insults and sarcastic volleys a turn on, but I hated how he always forced me down to his level. No matter how much I cautioned myself to _not _lower myself into trading abusive quips, he always managed to bait me into joining him.

"I think you're just too fucking scared that you won't be able to resist me," he murmured sweetly, pulling me an inch closer to him. I swallowed hard as his hand loosened its grip and skimmed the surface of my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

Logically, with the part of my brain that was still functioning, I knew that he was playing me right now. The taunt was a perfectly executed dare to get me to throw caution to the wind and jump into bed with him.

He knew I'd never be able to resist the affront to my self-control and pride, and damn him to hell, he was way too fucking right.

However, that didn't mean I had to give in without one last fireball to his defenses. "And you're just a little too desperate to get me into that bed." I shot him my own cocky glare, and wrenched my arm from his fingers, before returning to the bed and beckoning invitingly. "Joining me?" I asked. "Or are you a little too nervous that you won't be sleeping?"

Edward laughed then, and not just one of those bitter, sarcastic chuckles that I'd thought were all he was capable of. Instead, this was a full blown, _real _laugh. Even he looked vaguely surprised as the joyful sound echoed in the tiny room.

"Just come to bed," I told him softly. "We're both tired. We can. . .share."

"You're sure?"

"If you're wondering if I can handle some raunchy PG cuddling? You'd be surprised how hardcore I can be," I joked self-consciously. While I didn't consider myself exactly prudish, I also wasn't nearly as accomplished or experienced sexually as Edward was. But then, who was?

Edward chuckled again, the sound slipping out almost as if he didn't want it to. I wondered, not for the first time in the last few days, if he was softening up, just the tiniest bit. Yes, he was still his insulting, asshat self almost all the time, but once in a while, I could see his guard slip a little. His defenses were definitely impressive, but I knew that a situation like this could demolish even the toughest personalities.

Suddenly, I was unsure if I wanted those high, impenetrable walls tumbling down around his feet. Because if they did, and I could see the man behind all the sex appeal, the sarcastic anger and the booze, I was sure that I would melt like a popsicle in the dog days of summer. In the end, I'd never stand a chance against him—and that would never do.

Better mean quips and sarcastic volleys than heartfelt confessions, I decided.

"I don't like you, Swan, but I could approve of a little hardcore action," he smirked, and the thin mattress sank under his weight as he sat on the edge.

"The bed's kind of small," I said unnecessarily, my stomach suddenly fluttering with nerves.

"If you're worried I'll be so disgusted by your proximity that I'll re-enact the scene from the van, you're wrong. I think I can keep my peanut butter and jelly down."

"Thank god," I said sarcastically, as I slid lengthwise against the wall, pulling my skirt with me. "I was really concerned about your gag reflex." My head dropped onto the mattress and I stretched my legs out, feeling the unused muscles go rigid, then slack.

"It's not my gag reflex you should be worried about," he retorted cheekily, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes and yes, despite my best intentions, smile a little bit. There was something kind of freeing in the way that we could insult the crap out of each other. I'd never felt quite so liberated to say exactly what was on my mind—and now not only was I 100% permitted to do so, I was literally reaching for the worst thing I could think of to say.

Edward lay down next to me, and I was mildly comforted to see that though the bed was indeed _very _tiny, there was enough room for at least a small Demilitarized Zone between us.

With my head on the mattress, and my eyes drifting shut, I realized I was exhausted. Adrenaline and fear had been coursing through my veins for so long that I'd felt jittery and too awake to do anything but doze off intermittently. But now I was really, seriously tired, my body worn out from its ordeal. So I could only mumble into the cotton sheet, "North Korea. South Korea. We've got the zone covered."

"The zone?" he asked, his voice as sleepy as mine sounded. I couldn't imagine how unpleasant it had been on the floor. I should have offered the bed much sooner than I had, but I'd been so angry at him that I hadn't even thought of it. And I'd been too scared that he'd see my suggestion as more than the simple peace offering it was.

"I'm South Korea; you're North Korea. And this," I murmured slowly, gesturing to the strip of unoccupied mattress between us, "is the Demilitarized Zone."

"Only you, Swan, would decide I'm North Korea."

I couldn't help but smile as I fell asleep to the vibration of his voice against the cotton sheet.

I woke up gradually. At first, I was only vaguely aware of where I wasn't—not where I was. I knew this couldn't be my bed, or the bed in my old room at Renee and Dr. Phil's house in Beverly Hills. I definitely wasn't at my ex-boyfriend's house (not that I'd been to Mike's for almost a year). Wherever the hell I was, I _did _know, however, that there was definitely someone with me because I could feel their warm, cozy bulk next to me. My only theories were either Alice had gained a few pounds or my cat had quadrupled in size.

And then it hit me. Like a sledgehammer to the head and to the heart. Or a freight train. I wasn't in Boston anymore, or in California, or even in Manchester. I was in the middle of fucking nowhere, locked up in a room that doubled as a jail cell, with Edward Cullen.

Suddenly, I didn't really want to open my eyes anymore, and see him sleeping way too close to me. I just wanted to pretend that I was somewhere else, with someone else—someone _safer_—but now that I'd remembered it was Edward next to me and not Alice or the cat or god forbid, Mike, I couldn't block out the thought that it was _him _lying so near.

His arm was outstretched, casually slung around my waist, the weight on my middle solid and reassuring, and his breathing was steady and calm. We were so close, I felt rather than heard the rhythm, and I was almost appalled to realize that my heart was beating in perfect tandem.

Almost.

It was only six letters, two syllables—one single word. And it was nearly enough to convince me that separating our bodies wasn't just a good idea; it was fucking imperative that I do so immediately, before my weak body decided to become any more attuned to Edward Cullen.

But first, before I untangled my limbs from his, I had to look at him and see just how he looked as he slept. Holding my own breath, I slowly opened my eyes, and a sigh escaped from between my lips and gently stirred the locks of messy copper hair falling over his forehead. He had to be _that _close, I thought, knowing it would be better to roll over and pretend we'd never woke up intertwined this way—or at least, if I hadn't woken up and seen it and felt it and _wanted _it.

My body was more traitorous than Benedict Arnold.

I watched in awe as he stirred a little in his sleep, twitching as if he was deep in the REM cycle. He looked so peaceful and boyish like this. So un-Edward Cullen like. Almost. . ._likeable. . ._I decided before I could change my mind and conclude something safer to my peace of mind.

"You're watching me sleep," Edward said groggily, and I nearly jumped out of my skin in surprise. How had I not noticed that his breathing had changed and he'd woken up? I was clearly deranged—or distracted. Either way, I flushed bright red and rolled over, dislodging his grip on my waist, which was something I should have done ten minutes ago.

"A momentary lapse of judgment," I mumbled into the cotton sheet. "You looked so _nice _when you slept, I forgot what a total asshole you are."

I felt him stretching behind me, his legs brushing against mine briefly, but long enough to make me wish that we were in a California king instead of a glorified cot. "It's too early for that shit," he said.

"You don't know it's early," I retorted. "It could be night, for all we know."

"I think we slept a good few hours, though," he continued, as if I hadn't just corrected him. So much for him being more likeable after getting some much-needed rest. He was as insufferable as ever, which was good, I told myself. Even more than good, it was _safe_. Like a protective barrier.

"We did." I could feel the awkwardness growing between us—that same awkwardness that you sometimes felt when you woke up in bed with a stranger after a one night stand. The Demilitarized Zone of the night before felt as if it had morphed, rather suddenly and inexplicably, into a gulf filled with secrets and lies and closely-guarded information that he would never share. When we decided to share the bed, I had wondered if maybe we were finally beginning to lean on each other a little, and I could stop having to hold myself quite so upright.

I pretended for my sanity and for the sake of my pride that I wasn't scared out of my fucking mind, but surely he knew it was an act. The truth was, I was terrified and sure that whatever the future held for me, it wasn't going to be good, and for just a moment before we'd fallen asleep, I'd thought for sure that he felt the same. As much as he tried to hide it, the darkness and the tedium and the feeling that you were utterly alone even though you weren't began to tear you down. I knew because I was feeling particularly ragged at this moment.

"You're quiet today," he said, the typical derision dripping from his voice. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to imagine I was anywhere else; tried to imagine that I didn't want to beg him to open up to me so that I didn't feel so hopelessly, wretchedly alone.

"I thought you wanted them silent, Cullen," I said, hiding the fear behind yet another witty retort. I knew there wasn't much ammunition left in me, but I was willing to dish it out while I still could.

"I said I didn't want them _talking_—I never said anything about wanting them silent," he corrected, his words shoving another couple of million miles between his vastly experienced, jaded player persona and my frightened desperation.

I told myself that it was just because he was afraid too; afraid and desperately trying not to show any weakness before me, but the Psych 101 analysis, while so effective in the classroom, felt flimsy and fleeting now. "You're vile," I said, and again, felt the heat leaking out of the words. I didn't mean them the same way I'd meant them yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Of course he could slip back into his role effortlessly, whereas I was finding mine increasingly misshapen and ill-fitting. And that I _could _hate him for.

"Turn around. I want to see your face, your eyes, when you say you hate me."

I couldn't do what he wanted, because I knew that if he saw, he'd see right through me. I didn't hate him; I only wanted to.

He sighed, clearly annoyed, but just as my words lacked the killer edge, his annoyance wasn't quite as razor sharp as it typically was. "Just turn over, Swan. You're not half bad to look at, even in the those clothes."

When I still didn't do as he wanted, I felt his hands reach over and tug on my torso, pulling me inexorably over to face him. I could resist, I thought, but it would ultimately be futile. Might as well let him see the truth of me now, because he'd see it eventually.

"There, that's better," Edward said, and if not for the knowing smirk on his stupid pretty face, he might actually have sounded nice for the briefest of moments. No doubt hell was about to freeze over.

"For you maybe."

"I'm wounded," Edward said in a pseudo-hurt tone. "That wasn't very nice, Brit Bitch. I would ask you to apologize, but we both know you didn't mean it."

I could argue, but what would be the point? The truth was staring at him through my fucking transparent eyes. "And?"

"I've said it before. And I'll say it again. You want something—well, two somethings if I'm going to be fucking honest—and I want it too. Let's just cut the petty bullshit and do something to kill this fucking boredom."

I was on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the white-tipped swells that crashed against the hard body lying next to me. It would be so easy to give in, to just lean forward a little, give Edward the sign that I had officially given in. I wouldn't even have to say the words; I was sure he could read female body language better than just about anyone else.

I let my eyes drift partially closed, and my heart thumped as his flickered to my lips. He wanted to kiss me again, I realized, and I wanted him too.

But before he could, the word vomit I'd tried my entire life to force down erupted. "Tell me something real, first," I murmured. "Tell me something that you don't want to tell me."

The kiss, which I'd been sure only five seconds before was inexorable and inevitable, halted before it could ever begin. Edward paused, so close to me I could pick out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. I tensed, afraid that he'd be angry—or even worse, that he'd refuse my request. But he didn't do anything that I'd expected. I should know better by now, I realized, than to expect the expected from Edward Cullen.

He fucking _smiled_. "You're devious, Brit Bitch. I think I like it."

"I'm not devious," I spluttered, both a little offended and a little complimented. "There _was_ a bargain."

"Which I was about to make you forget," Edward said cockily, and I wasn't sure I disagreed.

"You forget who you're talking to."

"True. Every time I underestimate you, Swan," he said, tightening his loose grip on my waist, the fingers rough but still gentle, "I end up getting kneed in the balls. I should know better by now."

It wasn't exactly a compliment on par with what most girls were desperate to hear from a man, but I knew he was telling the truth, and there was a kind of beautiful honesty in his words. Especially considering I knew how infrequently he played it straight with the female sex.

"You should," I agreed solemnly. "So what are you going to tell me? Your real name?"

That question _did _make him tense, and I regretted it the second it left my lips. I was sure that he wouldn't tell me anything now that I'd gone and reached for the stars.

"No. I don't tell anyone that. Even Carlisle doesn't know my real name. That's between me and . . ." he drifted off, his eyes going flat and emotionless. I couldn't help but finish his statement.

"Your mom," I supplied softly.

He nodded jerkily, rolling over onto his back until I couldn't see _into _him anymore. Only his profile and the edges of his self were visible. I could tell that he thought he'd fulfilled his half of the bargain, but I didn't agree. He hadn't really told me anything at all—only that he was even more fucked up than I'd imagined.

"That's not enough," I told him. "Tell me something else."

He said nothing for so long, the minutes ticking by soundlessly in the dark, that I wondered if he'd blocked me out and he hadn't heard after all. I debated whether I should say it again or I should just leave him be; clearly there was a reason he didn't give interviews. There was a whole ton of shit he didn't want to talk about at all. The awkwardness returned, settling in uncomfortably between us, occupying the Demilitarized Zone as if, instead of our bodies merging, it was meant to be there instead.

"My dad is dead too," Edward said so quietly that I almost thought I'd imagined it. "He died on my second birthday."

I'd never understood why people didn't know what to say to me when I confessed that I'd lost my father when I was 12. Now I understood that there wasn't anything _to _say. Words to express the yawning chasm of grief and loss didn't exist. At least I had never found any. So instead of saying some lame platitude about how I understood or "I've been there, dude" or "it really sucks, doesn't it?" I extended a hand, disregarding the awkwardness, and gently touched his shoulder.

"He was one of them," he continued. "A member of this group that's holding us. The Red Hands of Ulster."

* * *

**AN: I have a quick offer for you-_two _offers in fact.**

**I'll be responding to every single review this chapter-I keep meaning to, but failing. Therefore, I am making a public vow to respond. Also, if you leave a review, not only will you get a review response but you'll also get:**

**1. A teaser for Chapter 11.**

**2. I will try to answer any and all questions you pose for me. The only caveat to this offer is that I will _not _spoil later chapters or plot points that I have in the story. Therefore if I don't answer a question or tell you I can't, that means I don't want to ruin the story for you.**


	12. Commando Barbie

**AN: WOW! You guys were amazing reviewers last chapter-not that you aren't usually-but I was seriously blown away by your response to the last chapter. I tried my very best to respond to everyone and to answer everyone's questions (and send the teaser out), but at one point, once I'd done about 70+ over the first few days, I really just could not keep up. I'm so so so sorry. I fail as a review replier. In the end, I decided you would probably all appreciate a chapter instead of a review reply, so here's your reward :)**

**Playlist on my profile updated. Thank you my beta, JosieSwan.**

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* * *

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**Bella**

Oh shit, oh shit, oh _motherfucking _shit, I thought as I tried to process all the ways that this was fucked up. My brain nearly exploded with the repercussions of Edward's confession. So much that I hadn't understood and couldn't comprehend about the tightly closed man next to me made sense now. Even why he hated _me _so much.

"Your dad was a member of the IRA," I said slowly. "He died fighting for what he believed in. He died fighting against. . ." I didn't want to say _my _people, because I didn't necessarily consider myself British in the strictest sense, but in the end, blood was blood. It was in you, flowing through your veins, and you couldn't deny it, even if you wanted to.

"Yes." I watched as he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He had been so easy to dismiss before this moment as just a spoiled, overly emo, womanizing rock star. The context that I'd always used for Edward was now blown to shit, and I didn't know how to put it back together again. I was unmanned and destroyed and way too fucking vulnerable.

He rolled back over, just enough so he could meet my eyes, and he couldn't help but know it. His decision was all over his face, and while I knew I could stop it, could push him away, I didn't have the emotional grid quite rebuilt just yet. So I gave in and only felt as he dismantled me all over again.

He kissed me for the second time, his lips coasting over mine deliberately and just before my eyes drifted closed and I could fall more into his kiss, into his embrace, I saw the flicker of death and pain in his eyes evaporate into numbness. I realized then that I was only a coping mechanism, just as the other women had been, but at least I realized it, and I knew the reason why. That was enough for me—it had to be, because I couldn't pull away now as his arms grasped me and dragged me physically across the Demilitarized Zone until I fit flush against him.

I was sure that he'd move too fast for me. After all, this was Edward Cullen and his exploits with women were legendary—hadn't he told me to take off my clothes pretty much the first second he'd met me? But he didn't pull the domineering asshat card this time. Instead, he kissed me, not exactly tenderly, but passionately and single-mindedly, as if we were going to only kiss forever.

His hands tightened around my waist, the his rough fingers stroking and teasing my skin, and I pushed my hands into the hair at the base of his neck. I forced myself not to think, but only to revel in how good it felt to be wrapped up and around him.

Our legs and our mouths tangled together, and it felt so fucking good, like a drug you were hesitant to try, but once you did, you couldn't get enough of. Edward might not be on board whispering sweet, romantic nothings in my ear, but there was something so intrinsically physical and sexual about the way his fingers skimmed up my legs, from the calves to my knees to my thighs. I'd never thought I'd admit this, but I didn't even miss the emotional connection when I kissed him. I just wanted to feel this extraordinary, drugging pleasure forever.

Edward's lips were hot on mine and my skin felt too tight and small for the body inside. His hands moved farther up my thighs, until they found the edge of my panties. I tensed, expecting him to go further, to push me harder, until I inevitably gave in, but instead, he stopped where he was, seemingly content to trace the very edge of them. Even that relatively innocuous move had me panting into his mouth, squirming to get closer, to rub against the hard-on that he seemed completely comfortable with sharing with me.

This, I thought dimly, was the danger with kissing him right now. There was nothing to interrupt us, nobody to wrest us back to the reality of "I don't really like you that all that much." And I realized that Edward was probably past caring about that particular point, and I was only about thirty seconds behind him.

I pulled away, knowing that if I didn't do it now, I wouldn't be able to soon, but with his lips free, he proceeded to lick and nibble down the column of my neck, kissing the slope with such skill that I forgot exactly why I'd wanted to stop in the first place.

"Wait," I mumbled breathlessly. "We . . ."

But before I could finish the thought, the door opened and light flooded through the room. I blinked in surprise, my eyes nearly blind at the sudden brightness. Realizing that Emmett had come back, I tried to pull away from Edward, to detangle myself from his arms, so that nobody would know what I had almost succumbed to doing in the dark cocoon of our jail cell. But Edward was having none of it and he held on tight as I struggled to get away.

"Well isn't this an adorable scene." The harsh, metallic voice, totally unemotional and tinged with so much bitterness it dripped with it, wasn't Emmett's. Giving one final shove to Edward, I sat up while rearranging my clothing, and came face to face with a woman—or maybe she was a girl. Except that no girl had a voice like that.

She was tiny, maybe only 5'0" but you'd never mistake her for a child because she was dressed in tight leather pants, black boots and a tight black t-shirt that clung to the curveless planes of her body. I gulped and blinked hard, hoping that whoever this was, she was only a mirage brought on by too long in the dark. Her face was formed into similar hard angles, and her blond hair was pulled back relentlessly from her face, braided into a tight, unforgiving rope that swung behind her. Her eyes were just as dark as her voice, almost black, and completely dead. I had never before met a woman who scared me the living shit out of me, but clearly there was a first time for everything.

"Emmett told me you were a pig, but clearly, I underestimated you," she said, that dead voice morphing into something deeper, something unbearably darker.

"Who the hell are you?" Edward snarled at her, but I noticed he made no move to put me behind him or protect me in any way from Commando Barbie. Well, I supposed I shouldn't be surprised at that. Edward had never made any pretense of being anything other than what he was—a selfish ass. A few kisses weren't going to change that, no matter how mind-blowing they had been.

"You can call me Jane," she said succinctly, and I had a definite hunch that, just like Edward, Jane wasn't her real name.

"And you are?" I couldn't help but ask the question, because my stomach had twisted into a dozen or so boy scout-worthy knots ever since Jane's untimely entrance.

"I'm in charge here." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked coldly at me, like she would rather I evaporated into nothingness. Which made sense, considering I wasn't exactly supposed to be here.

"What about Emmett?" Edward asked casually, and I could tell he was more worried about the fate of the man who'd kidnapped him than his own, which was ridiculous. If Edward cared any less about his own personal safety, he'd probably drop dead from lack of oxygen to his lungs.

"Oh, he's fine," Jane said, and the very timbre of her voice seemed to resonate with her displeasure. I'd been worried before, of course, once I had stopped to really think of how Emmett's "friends" might view my appearance, but because he'd never mentioned any potential difficulty, I'd stupidly assumed that everything would be alright. Clearly, it was _not _going to be alright, if Jane had anything to say about the matter. And unfortunately, it appeared that she had _all _the say.

"Good," Edward spoke up again, "because he matters to me. He's important. Remember that."

I didn't exactly think that Edward was in a position to be making demands, but then I remembered, the knowledge rushing back to the forefront of my thoughts, that Edward's father had lived and died as a member of this group. Yes, he was currently kind of incarcerated, but surely that was some sort of misunderstanding. He was, if anything, a member by default. By blood. Me, on the other hand . . .

I was an interloper, and not only that, I was descended, almost directly, from a race that was the sworn, hated enemy. I would have to be very, very careful not to let my British accent slip out, and pray that Edward , in his eagerness to get out of here, didn't sell my secret.

Jane looked at him hard, her gaze sharpening even further, and then she gave a small, nearly-feral smile. I tried not to shudder visibly as her teeth bared. "I'll keep that in mind. Have a good night."

She turned on her boot sole and left the way she'd come—abruptly.

The door closed behind her and we heard the sounds of the locks closing us into our cell. Edward turned to me, and I could tell from the sudden pasty pallor of his skin and tight restrained quality of his voice that he was nervous. "I wasn't expecting her."

"I'm not surprised," I told him almost flippantly, trying to lighten the suddenly suffocating atmosphere in the room, "I wouldn't be expecting her either."

"I forget sometimes that the Red Hands are a militaristic arm of the IRA. Emphasis on the militaristic." He said it almost as if he was speaking to the void and not to me at all.

"I can see why you'd conveniently forget that part," I murmured. And I could. What boy would want to think of his father as part of a militant terrorist organization, no matter how lofty their goals? No doubt it was much easier to think of his dad plotting and working to overthrow the British government in Ireland in an amorphous way. Not with bombs and guns and bullets.

"I could before," Edward said. "I _can't _now."

* * *

I felt sick. The peanut butter and cheap white wonder bread I'd been consuming for days on end was a thick, heavy lump in my stomach and I rubbed it absently as Edward and I lay together on the bed.

After Jane's unexpected appearance, neither of us had mentioned abandoning the bed again, and we'd stretched out like before. Except that this time, as I stared at the empty space between us, I vowed that I'd preserve it this time. It had been a monumental mistake, no matter how good it had felt, to let Edward touch me. And I hadn't just let him touch me, I realized, I had touched _him_. For what had at the time seemed like a million good, justifiable reasons, but now just felt like selfish weakness—because I had _wanted _to.

Neither of us had much to say. What else _was_ there to say? There was no point in saying that we were both fucking screwed, because to verbalize it, to say the words out loud, meant that they were true.

So we lay in silence, carefully not touching, and thinking of all the things that we couldn't say. At least I was, and I was fairly sure, from Edward's frozen facial expression, that he was thinking along similar lines.

"You can't let them find out you're British." The words slipped out, as if he'd never meant to say them -only think them- and I closed my eyes in fear and panic and horror as the knots in my stomach tightened.

"I know," I whispered. I couldn't help but wonder what Edward's cautionary warning meant; surely he didn't _care _what happened to me. He hated me. He'd said it enough, and I'd been so sure that he'd meant it every single time—until now. Maybe, I thought, glancing at him from under the cover of my semi-closed eyes, it was all a matter of his defenses breaking down in an excruciatingly stressful situation.

"Better yet," Edward continued, "just don't talk at all if she comes back."

"Believe me, I wasn't planning on it. But if I had to talk, it would probably be okay. After all, you didn't notice until . . ." I realized that I'd been about to say that my accent hadn't appeared until he'd cornered me. And this particular situation, more than probably any other I'd been in, had the potential for extreme stress.

"I just won't say anything," I corrected, shutting my trap. As much as I hated admitting that he was right, he had my best interests at heart here. Which was a thought I'd never have connected to Edward Cullen.

"That's a better plan," he said.

Feeling strangely better with saying the words rather than just thinking them, my stomach clenched with anxiety and nausea as silence again fell between us. As if he felt the same, Edward spoke up again, not even minutes later, and he picked a topic that I'd never even allowed myself to _imagine _discussing with him. And not only that, his voice was _nice_, neutral. The dripping disdain was completely gone.

"So your dad got you into rock music?"

My fingers, tracing the wrinkles in the rough cotton of the sheet, froze. Were we going to have an actual conversation that didn't consist of verbal baiting and insults? It appeared so. "Yes," I said softly. "I guess I didn't like it so much when I was young -when he was alive- but after he died? Music kept me sane."

I halfway expected him to argue the point—that it was stupid to consider myself insane just because I'd lost a parent—but I saw him nod instead, and for the second time in an hour, I wondered just who the Edward was behind the walls, and if I would like him any better than the Edward I'd spent the last few days with.

"I understand," he said. "I get the insane thing, even though I don't remember my dad. My mom alone was probably enough to commit me."

"Same here," I said wryly. "She's spent my entire life desperately trying to make me be everything she was. The music was -_is- _a good way of fighting her."

To my surprise, Edward chuckled, the sound natural and real, the bitter and scornful edge missing. I opened my eyes a little farther, and I saw that he wasn't even really looking at me. His eyes were focused over my shoulder, on the empty wall, lost in his own memories.

"Esme's so hard she makes you look like Aphrodite," he said. Of course, this was still Edward and he couldn't be nice for long, but I smiled anyway. Only he could manage to work me into an insult about his mother.

"Esme's your mom?"

"Yeah. She's a real piece of work, though I suppose that by the time she met my dad, she'd already spent 18 years being taught to think, to act, one way, and it was a little too late to change. She tried out his life, but it was really only a trial. And when he died, we came back to the life she'd been born to."

He paused, and I wondered if he was clamming up again—deciding that he'd told me too much already—but then he continued, and I realized then that he hadn't been rebuilding the walls. He'd been trying to pick the right words to use to describe the exactly how he'd felt.

"I didn't know my father, and I don't remember the life we had with him. But when I was old enough, I spent all my time learning what it must have been like. I've been angry at Esme for picking for us, because I was sure she'd picked wrong. But now, I'm not so sure she did."

I swallowed hard as the pieces fell into place. "That's why you didn't fight it. This is what you'd always wanted."

He stretched out his long legs, and one of them brushed mine. We both jumped, as if we'd been electrocuted. And it made sense, considering my earlier decision that becoming physically involved was a mistake, for me to react that way, but not for Edward; after all, he spent his entire life burying himself in physicality.

"Sorry," he muttered, and then I knew I was either in an alternate universe or something _weird_ had just happened to the man beside me. I'd never heard him apologize for any of the crap he'd said to me over the last few days, or for manhandling me, or for the untenable situation we'd found ourselves in. And now he'd just gone and apologized for _touching my leg_.

"Who are you?" I demanded. "Are you still Edward Cullen or are you his good twin?"

He laughed at that, the clear sound breaking down the tension that lay between us. "You make me sound like an asshole."

I rolled my eyes at him. "You _are _an asshole, remember?"

"As always, you flatter me, Swan." He paused, and I could see the intense thought on his face. He wanted to say something—to ask something—but he was hesitating. Fear didn't mesh with the Edward Cullen I thought I knew, but the last ten minutes had begun to prove that I didn't know him all that well after all.

"Just tell me," I said with exasperation. "You know you want to."

"A blogger, and now a mind reader." Edward sighed. "What happened earlier. . .I've never had to _pay _a woman to kiss me before. I'm feeling. . .weird about it."

"You're _feeling_? I think the world just stopped rotating."

"Very funny, Swan. I'm serious." And from his expression, I could tell he was. His green eyes were locked earnestly onto mine, and though he still had that slightly cocky smirk on his lips, he was being sincere-maybe for the first time in his entire fucking life. "I may get women drunk and high and manipulate them into fucking me, but I've never had to pay for one."

"You say this as if I was a professional," I said self-consciously. I wasn't used to this Edward; I didn't know how to handle him. I'd handled the other just fine, because I could dish out verbal volleys as well as he could, but heartfelt confessions, especially from a man that I'd been so sure didn't even _have _a conscience? Those were more difficult. "You didn't technically _pay _me anyway."

"Information is more valuable than money. We both know this."

"So what are you saying exactly?"

"I'll tell you what you want to know—within reason. And I definitely want to kiss you again-and _more_-but the trade's off. I don't want you ruining my perfect record, Swan."

And there the cockiness returned in full force, the lightning charm in his eyes. I couldn't believe that I'd never suspected that he was Irish before. Sure he didn't have an accent, but it was so obvious—in the quicksilver charm, in the sullen broodiness, in the animal magnetism he reveled in.

"Anything I want to know?"

"Fuck no, Swan. There are some things that are off-limits. I get veto power."

"That's not fair."

"Take it or leave it."

I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. "Fine. Veto power is permissible. But, don't think that because I'm agreeing to this that there will be any more kissing. Because I'm resolved on that point."

"You don't think I could seduce you?" I thought he definitely could, but I also was sure that I had to resist, if I wanted to hold myself together.

"No," I said forcefully. "Absolutely not. That was just a moment of weakness. I'm long past it."

"Well, I'd certainly would be disappointed if you made it easy. Gives me something to do in this godforsaken place."

"I am not your entertainment," I shot back.

"But I'm yours," he grinned.

"That's different. That's scientific inquiry. I want to know how the great Edward Cullen ticks."

"And I just want to make the ice cold Bella Swan melt. How is that any different?"

I swallowed hard. "Resistance is futile, Swan," he said casually, rolling onto his back. "Just remember that."

* * *

**Emmett**

Typically, women liked me. For the last ten years, I'd been comfortable around them (Rosalie excluded) and they were generally pretty damn comfortable around me too. I might not fuck anything vaguely female, like Edward did, but I'd definitely never hurt for female company.

Jane, it appeared, was the exception to the rule. As she stalked out of the hallway and into the kitchen, I could practically feel her disdain, her anger and her utter loathing for me rolling off her in waves. Yeah, Jane and I weren't exactly friends, because I'd rather chop my hand off with a rusty, dull blade than touch her.

Yes, she had all the right parts in all the right places—though I supposed that was debatable—but she was so scary as fuck that you didn't even want to _think _about touching any of those places while she was in the room. Her version of a girly slap and an offended squeal? Let me whittle your balls off, nice and slow, and then stuff them down your throat. And that was probably one of Jane's kinder methods of castration.

The original plan—I was already beginning to think in nostalgic terms of the point when it had seemed very likely that I'd manage to pull this off with no collateral damage to myself or to others—had been for the boss to show up alone, have a quiet little convo with Edward, and then split. This was why I'd allowed Bella to come along; I'd figured that it couldn't exactly hurt anything, and she'd be good company for my egotistical, narcissistic boss. Plus, the part of me that wished I was still a student, couldn't help but be interested in the potential human experiment. Would they kill each other? Fuck like rabbits? Or, most improbably of all, end up actually _liking _each other?

Mentally I scoffed at the latter option. The very best that I could possibly hope for would be tolerating each other's company and I should thank God that he hadn't gone all Brit-crazy on her yet, the way he'd done only a week ago with Monaghan.

Jane stared at me from those dead eyes, never blinking, never moving, her face a perfect blank mask of nothing. If she was pissed that I'd brought along a toy for Edward to play with, she didn't look it, though from the tightly coiled energy surrounding her, I had a horrible feeling that it didn't exactly take much to send her off the deep end.

"So," I said as normally as I could, as if I kidnapped rock stars and faced down scary as fuck IRA henchmen—or hench_women_—everyday. "Where's Niall?"

She moved like a snake, swift and deadly. I was up against the wall before I could even blink or move a hand to defend myself—after the first time meeting her, I'd decided that Jane didn't count under the "don't hit women" policy; she was a clause all her own—and with a flat strike of her palm, she pressed my head back against the plaster so hard I saw stars.

"You do not have permission to speak his name," she hissed, her thin lips so compressed together they almost disappeared into the milky white of her face.

I'd forgotten how freakishly protective Jane was of Niall. In fact, I was nearly certain they were sleeping together, which dropped the Red Hands boss down even farther in my estimation, and he was already pretty fucking low as it was.

"Sorry," I gasped, the flat of her hand digging into the skin of my throat until my voice came out in an unattractive squeal. "Won't do it again."

She released me as abruptly as she'd attacked me, and as she walked back into the kitchen, that tight blond braid swinging behind her, I surreptitiously rubbed the soon-to-be-bruised skin of my throat. It was embarrassing enough that she'd managed to pin me, and I had about a foot and a hundred pounds of muscle on her—she didn't need to know she'd hurt me on top of it. Though this was Jane, and every fucking thing she did was deliberate and calculated. Emotionless and remorseless, those were her calling cards. With a hint of sadism thrown in.

"Aro," Jane said pointedly, turning to throw yet another deathly glare my direction, "will be here in a few days."

Oh, that's right, I thought, barely restraining an eye roll, Niall didn't like going by his _real _name. He liked this Machiavellian, James Bond shit. So Aro it was. Personally, I thought it was stupid and added a complicated cloak-and-dagger wrinkle that was completely unnecessary, but being in charge, Niall did what Niall wanted. And since he was only a step behind Jane in sadistic fuckery, that was usually a fairly terrifying prospect.

She stayed in the kitchen, and I stayed in the small dining area, and we eyed each other through the connecting aisle. I could tell she didn't even want to be in the same room as me, and I sure as fuck wanted to stay as far away from her as I possibly could. "Let's talk about why you brought the girl."

And _that _was a line of questioning that I didn't really want to get into. I shrugged, keeping my expression carefully blank. If Jane smelled just how little I wanted to discuss the pretty brunette, she'd never let it go. In fact, she'd probably work up some paranoid schizo plot about why Bella was here—to infiltrate the Red Hands or something equally ridiculous. As if Bella could ever be a spy. She hadn't even been very good as a groupie.

"Not good enough," Jane snapped. "Tell me why she's here. _Now_." The demand was quietly uttered, but absolute. Dread coiled in the pit of my belly and my fists clenched, the skin sweaty and nervous. _Rosalie,_ I uttered like a prayer, like a vow to myself and to her, _Rosalie_. All it took was a vision of her blond hair falling over her forehead, over those pool blue eyes, and I knew I would do whatever it took to get back to her. Even face psycho-bitch and not back down.

"She's none of your concern," I told her. "Bella is my responsibility, not yours."

"It's _my _responsibility to make sure that what happens here, stays here," Jane said slyly.

The oily tone of her voice twisted my gut into more knots, but I forced my voice to stay even. "She has no idea what's going on. And it'll stay that way."

"_You _don't even know what's going on," Jane scoffed.

That was definitely unwelcome news, but I tamped down the swelling panic, telling—no, _insisting_—to myself that Jane was just a crazy effer, and she liked screwing with me because she hated my guts. Bella _and _Edward and I would all be safe and unharmed and would get out of here with limbs and brains and skin untouched. Though my certainty that this would happen was dying a slow death with every second that Jane stared unblinking at me, her thin lips twisting into a grimace of a smile.

"Doesn't matter. She _will _stay unharmed." I didn't add that it was my own damn fault that she was here in the first place, and I would _never _let her be threatened or hurt. Same with Edward. If not for me, he would be up to his usual tricks. His behavior had never been exactly conservative, but he hadn't ever purposely put himself into a nest of vipers either.

Or rather, the nest of _one _viper.

"We'll see about that," Jane said, her voice telling me that I was fucking crazy. "Niall may disagree."

We both knew that Niall would definitely disagree—though at one point, I thought hopelessly, I'd been sure that Niall just wanted to talk to Edward. Now, with Jane's appearance, I was no longer quite so sure. There was definitely something going on that I was unaware of, and my own naivety and stupidity had put us all in incredible danger.

As Jane stalked off, her boots making hard, clicking sounds on the linoleum floor, I realized that I was going to have to do something to get us out of here pronto, before the situation disintegrated even more. Possibly before even Niall showed up. That would make things more difficult for me in the long term, since it would mean I hadn't fulfilled my end of the bargain with the Red Hands, but I would deal with that bridge when we came to it. For right now, I had to make sure that we all remained in one fucking piece.

* * *

**AN: You can still donate to FicsforNashville to get my outtake from this story, called _Transgressions of the Mother_, which is about Esme (of course).**

**Shameless Pimp: a month or so ago, JosieSwan and I wrote an entry for the Texts from Last Night contest, The Princess & the Pussycat, which is kind of a story that you either love or hate lol. If you were one of the admiring factions, I encourage you to go vote for us. Link on my profile!**


	13. The Ice Queen

**AN: Again, your response to this is humbling and amazing. Thank you all :)**

**Also, thanks have to go to JosieSwan, who is always there and always supportive-even when I require a ridiculous amount of handholding.**

* * *

**Esme**

I thought I'd experienced all the shocks I could in my life. Nothing, I was sure, could ever surprise me again.

After all, I'd lived through learning the man I loved was a militaristic terrorist hell bent on destroying the British Empire. I'd dealt with my son pursing every self-indulgent, self-destructive behavior that he could think of. Without him and without my parents, I'd grown a tougher shell and learned to live among the most judgmental people in the universe. I'd even taken the news of my sons' kidnapping by the Red Hands with aplomb—of course, that particular event was one that I'd been anticipating and dreading for his entire life.

Alice's nuclear bomb was something that I'd never expected, and I gaped at her. "The girl with Edward. Her mother is Renee Swan? I didn't realize she even had children."

"Oh, she'd prefer it if she didn't," Alice said sweetly. "But Bella is definitely her daughter, no matter how hard she tries not to be." I already didn't like this Bella; didn't she understand how much we as parents sacrificed to make our children happy? Of course, Edward was equally oblivious, and likely always would be, but I couldn't help but think of all his rejections over the years. Culminating in the misunderstanding that had ended with him taking a different last name.

"You don't mean _the _Renee Swan," Carlisle stuttered, clearly as taken aback as I was by the news that the woman he'd probably had pinup posters of during his formative years was not only a mother, but the mother of the girl with Edward.

"Oh yes," Alice said. "_That _Renee Swan."

The tension in my neck grew unbearable, the symptoms of all the years of containing the shocks and disappointments pushing me over an edge I hadn't known even existed. I snapped.

"She's _not _coming here. I won't have her here."

Everyone turned towards me as if I'd just lost my mind. Which might have been possible. "I don't care what you say," I said, only vaguely aware of my own hysterical voice, "I don't want her here. Not her."

"She's not all that bad," Alice said, and then apparently reconsidered her position. "Well, she is. But she's also Bella's mother. She deserves to be here." If I was in any other mental state, I could have appreciated the tiny girl's ability to stand up to me—a talent that almost nobody else had ever mastered, at least not since I'd grown into the Ice Queen—but I was too far gone to care.

"No," I repeated. "_No_." As everyone stared at me, looking like I'd just grown a second head, I knew I had to get away. Before I lost it even more. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I could only feel as twenty five years of shit fell on top of me.

I stood up so abruptly, the black Chippendale chair fell to the ground, probably chipping the carefully-restored finish, but I didn't even care. In fact, I decided it was only appropriate that the perfect centerpiece of my life—the house I had spent so many years perfecting—finally reflected the rotten, damaged core of its mistress. My feet flew as I rushed from the room, abandoning the open-mouthed stares of my guests, not caring for the first time in my life that I was being a terrible hostess. Nothing mattered except all the ways that I had failed me and failed my son.

Of course it was Carlisle who found me.

I had escaped to the back porch, taking a quick detour by the wet bar to pour myself the kind of drink that Edward would have appreciated. I stood on the wraparound wooden room, the breeze filtering through the screens, the atmosphere peaceful and lovely, and wanted nothing more than to scream. To cut through the oppressive air with the kind of cracks that were jaggedly spiking through me.

"I should have known it was all an act," he said, his footsteps distinct on the wooden floorboard. I could sense his presence approaching from behind and I stiffened. He was the very last person I wanted to see, which was no doubt why he'd sent himself.

"I don't understand why you care one way or the other," I told him bitterly, refusing to turn around and meet his eyes. I didn't want to see any more pity reflected there. It galled me, a bitter taste in the back of my throat, that _he _should pity _me_. I was Esme Platt, with the world in the palm of her hand. He was a washed up, aging rock star who'd never managed to hit the echelons of success he'd longed for. And yet, there was a peace about him that I had never managed to find. All the landscaping projects and antiques and paint chips and successful parties couldn't fill the holes that I hated acknowledging.

"Of course you don't. But I do all the same." Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I could hear the sympathy in his voice. He felt _sorry _for me, and I didn't know what to do with it. Or with any of the other turbulent emotions swirling through me.

Maybe it was as simple as this: I had spent the last twenty five years refusing to face the facts—I was lost, and didn't know how to be found.

I took a long swallow from the glass in my hand, and felt the liquid burn a path down my throat. It churned in my stomach and I didn't feel any better. Maybe I even felt worse; even more out of control than before.

"You need to sit down. To take a deep breath. To not worry. Let me do that for you." He was so gentle, so good. I wanted so badly to let him lift the burdens off my shoulders, but the lessons of my mother were too heavily ingrained into my consciousness to permit him.

"I'm fine," I said, aware that that semi-hysterical note was still present in my tone.

"You're not even close to fine. And what's more, it's okay that you're not. You need to realize that once in awhile it's alright to _not _be fine."

That did it. I was pissed now. How dare he come to _my _house, follow me when I clearly did _not _want to be followed, and then proceed to lecture me on how I should live my own life?

I turned slowly, the anger doing a slow burn in my stomach. Or maybe that was the vodka. I wasn't sure any longer; all I knew was that I was furious and Carlisle was the one standing right in front of me.

"And what do you know about it? What do you know about what I've been through?" I was vaguely aware of the fact that I might be yelling, but my voice seemed so very far away that I couldn't tell for sure.

He reached out and gently pulled my fingers, one by one, from the glass they'd been wrapped around. Sniffing it, he made a disgusted face, and then it set it down on a side table. "Esme, I don't. I don't presume to know. But I will say that your Ice Queen act doesn't work with me. For whatever reason, I seem to be the only person you've ever met that can tell that you're not fine. So please, for the love of God, stop pretending—at least around me."

Like a balloon being punctured, the air rushed out of my lungs, and my knees gave out. I sank to a long, narrow chaise lounge, and buried my head in my hands. My mother's voice was yelling at me, _screaming_, that I was doing something so completely wrong it was irreversible. Carlisle would _never _respect me now. But I was pretty damn sure that he didn't now, so I blocked her out and let the tears fall, feeling them seep into the palms of my hands.

"I've failed him," I wailed, in a very un-Esme like voice, full of all the pain and anger and disappointment and fear that I'd spent my life pretending didn't exist. "I came back here because I thought he would be safe. But I pushed him away, forced him into a lifestyle where it was inevitable that they'd take him."

"Esme," Carlisle said patiently, "you didn't fail. Edward knew. And I think he wanted to be taken. He. . .he's never been able to come to terms with who he is. And as much as I worry about him, I wonder if this won't be a much-needed wakeup call for him. What he's always wanted isn't at all what he thought it was."

"No," I sobbed. "I remember. . . .remember when I found out. I thought it was so damn romantic. Wild and crazy and wonderful." _And terrible_-but nobody knew that except for me. I lifted my head, to see Carlisle bent down towards me, his hands reaching out for mine. I let him take them, and felt the first edge of the hysteria fade.

"Eoghan, he tried to be a good man, but he was too deep. And he believed. Fervently."

"Sounds like the Edward I know," Carlisle said wryly. And I realized, looking at him through my watery eyes, that he didn't look like he was pitying me after all. The pity wasn't for me. It was for Edward.

"I tried to tell him," I hiccupped, my gasping breaths catching in my throat. "Always."

"But he wouldn't listen," Carlisle finished. "Again, that sounds exactly like the Edward I know."

"How do I live with this?"

"Well, first of all. You don't have to. You're not giving him up to _them_. And he won't give himself up either. Deep down, he knows what's right, and what's wrong. You have to trust in that, and trust that we can get him back."

Words failed me. I just sat there, gasping a little bit, and wondered how it was that I had never seen him like this. Carlisle had always been the same, annoying the edges of my consciousness with his kind eyes and penetrating analysis. But I had never stopped and _looked _at him before.

"Come on. We need to get stated. First things first, we need to call Renee Swan." He said it so matter-of-factly that I'd nearly forgotten that she was the reason that I'd fallen apart in the first place.

"Must we?" I couldn't believe I was deferring to him; I didn't think I'd deferred to anyone since my mother had passed twenty years ago. It was strange how natural it felt to do so when I felt so lost and he was so strong—like a wall that I could batter myself against.

"I'm afraid so," Carlisle sighed. "Though I admit, I'm looking forward to it as much as you are."

"Then why?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. I felt weak, forcing him to vocalize what I knew perfectly well.

"Because it's the right thing to do, which you know very well," Carlisle said with a small smile, as he helped me to my feet. I brushed the dampness from under my eyes and smoothed my hair.

We started to walk into the house again, but he stopped me, latching onto my arm and holding me back. "Wait. I want to say one thing." I turned to face him, surprised that his expression was so solemn. "When I first became Edward's manager, I didn't know the first thing about making hard choices or being the responsible one. I was probably only half a step ahead of Edward in terms of maturity. But watching you, Esme, it gave me a glimpse into the kind of person that I wanted to be."

For the second time today, I was completely astonished. I'd never guessed that Carlisle had ever been emulating me. "Thank you," I said softly.

He shrugged, as if what he was saying was nothing at all, when in fact, it was very nearly everything. "I've just always admired your fortitude. The way you unfailingly and unquestionably do what you believe is right. And _that's _why you need to call Renee Swan—because it's who you are."

In the end, it was Carlisle who called Renee.

I'd been wiling to, even going so far as to get her phone number from Alice. But in the process of doing so both Carlisle and I had noticed how suddenly exhausted the girls looked, and Carlisle had offered to make the call while I made arrangements for bedrooms and pajamas.

The staff at the house was used to me—most of them having been with my even more exacting mother before—and they were so quick that I was done before Carlisle was even off the phone. I glanced into the study, where he was pacing, his phone to his ear, and decided to make some calls of my own in my office while he finished up with Renee.

First, I made the executive decision that both Rosalie and Alice would be staying at the house with me and Carlisle until this whole thing ended—however it ended. They would need clothes and toiletries and everyday essentials. I called my shopper in New York and gave approximate sizes and a variety of occasions the girls would need to dress for. She promised me that the clothes would be messengered over by the evening. I hung up, and then reconsidered, calling her back, adding a separate, but mostly unnecessary list for Carlisle, dressing him not in the jeans and t-shirts he normally favored but sport coats and slacks and suits. As I told her exactly what to purchase, I felt myself growing curious what he would look like, in this wardrobe of my choosing, but brushed the thought aside. Carlisle was simply an ally, I told myself, not someone to play Barbie with. Even if he looked a little like I'd always thought Ken might if he was real flesh and blood instead of plastic.

The second call was to my part-time personal assistant, who I used only when I needed her. Unlike my mother, I liked to be in direct control of my own life, and I didn't feel demeaned by doing some basic errands myself. I gave Emily a list of what the three visitors would need, and let her know that she'd need to be more available in the coming weeks, as I would certainly need the help.

I had just hung up with Emily, the modern sleek phone clicking into its cradle when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Carlisle walking in, the stress and exhaustion of the last twenty four hours beginning to show on his face. Or maybe that had just been the conversation with Renee. I had only met her a handful of times, but dealing with that sort of bullheaded tenacity was always unbearably trying.

"You know, I believe that you could run the world, if you wanted," he observed, sinking into a moss green padded chair across from the desk that I sat at. He must have been listening for longer than I'd thought, I realized. I really hoped he hadn't heard my phone call to the personal shopper regarding his new wardrobe, but he didn't mention it.

I blushed, taken aback by yet another compliment in my direction. I was used to running everything, and doing so with no appreciation, only the weight of incalculable expectations, but Carlisle didn't just notice what I did, he valued it. Which was completely unexpected. I glanced down at the burnished wood of the desk, strangely uneasy about this new accord we'd recently come to. Something had shifted between us, when he'd found me falling apart on the sun porch, and the ground felt uneven and treacherous—full of missteps that I couldn't foresee. So instead, I tried to move us back to familiar territory: me being the condescending, power-tripping Ice Queen and him being the man who'd steered my son into the kind of lifestyle that I could never forgive him for.

" I'm glad you think so," I said frostily, feeling the temperature in the room drop a few degrees as I raised my eyes and stared at him levelly. "We need to figure out what we're going to do."

"So you know," Carlisle said, staying in his reclined position, clearly refusing to take my bait, "Renee is flying in early tomorrow morning."

I couldn't hide the moue of distaste I made. "No doubt there will be a whole slew of paparazzi in tow."

"I already warned her—no publicity, no press. And surprisingly, she agreed."

"So you suspected what I did," I said. "That she somehow knew and planted Bella there to gain more press."

"She didn't," Carlisle confirmed. "She was hysterical when she found out that her daughter had been taken with Edward."

I wanted to make some sort of disparaging comment about Renee's inevitable reaction to the news, but considering my own meltdown was barely an hour in the past, I didn't think hypocrisy was really the best tactic to use. So I said nothing, just stared at him as he continued.

"I told her that we would set a plan in motion before she arrived, and she was fine with that."

I couldn't help it; after resisting the first time, I had to say the thought in my mind. "Renee wouldn't know where to begin, so naturally, she was fine with that. She's going to be a hysterical, high-maintenance dead weight."

Carlisle shrugged. He knew I was right, though pointing that particular fact out didn't get us anywhere. "She's willing to do whatever we think is appropriate. She even mentioned ransom money. She's willing to pay it."

"As am I. But unfortunately that isn't what they're going to want. Money isn't important to them—they want Edward."

"Yes," Carlisle agreed, "but they didn't want Bella."

"You're hoping that you can pay to get her out? No. It's both of them or neither." I knew it was irrational to make that kind of sweeping judgment but I refused to see Renee Swan's daughter safe while my son remained in the hands of those lunatics.

Carlisle nodded succinctly. "I don't disagree with you, actually. Bella is set free and we lose tactical ground with Edward. We'll get them both back. Together."

"I'm going to call my private investigator first," I said. "And I think we should also call the PI that Rosalie used. I believe his last name was Tyler? He dug up some more current information that I think I have access to."

"I'm surprised that you don't have a monopoly on every shred of information about the Red Hands," Carlisle said wryly. "You don't strike me as the 'sit back and wait for them to take your son' type of woman."

"I'm not," I snapped, annoyed at his assumption that I'd spent the last twenty five years not doing everything I could to protect my family from the Red Hands. "Edward is a grown man. To protect him, he has to both believe that he's in danger and _let _me do what I can to protect him. Neither of those has been true for a very long time."

He sighed. "I know better than you realize. And I want you to know that I _have _tried to control him, but you know Edward. The second he thinks you're trying to help him, he's completely unresponsive and intractable."

Of course I knew. I was his mother, and I'd spent the last twenty five years desperately trying to steer my son onto the right path and failing utterly. More than probably anyone else, I was aware of his stubborn, willful behavior. But admitting to Carlisle that I knew that he'd tried meant admitting that all the many times I'd blamed him for Edward's behavior were simply the product of a woman angry at a man and looking for an excuse to lash out.

I'd just wanted so desperately to find a reason to hate him the way I knew I should.

But instead of saying any of that, I changed the subject. "Who else should we call?"

Carlisle dug in his pockets for a piece of paper and slid it over the desk. I squinted, barely able to make out a messily-scrawled phone number and no name.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"His name is Marcus. Just Marcus. And he 'fixes' things."

My gaze narrowed. "You're going to have to explain how he 'fixes' things and what exactly we need to fix here."

"He can get Edward and Bella back. Best not to ask how, because no doubt he errs on the side of illegality," Carlisle explained. "There's rumors that he was Black Ops in the Army Rangers. But nobody knows for sure. All anyone could tell me was that he was the best-connected, best-equipped person to handle a job of this nature."

"If you're certain," I murmured, icy panic streaking through my stomach, leaving nausea in its wake. I hated the thought of calling in someone like this, but I also wasn't naïve enough to believe that Boston's finest or even the FBI could get Edward and Bella out of the Red Hands' clutches.

"I'm sure Emmett's taken them across the border. This way, you don't have to wait for the red tape of diplomacy. You can just get them back." Unspoken was the fact that probably none of the Red Hands would be left alive, and this, no matter how bloodthirsty, pleased me. I would kill them myself, but learning how to give garden parties or which fork to use in the fish course didn't exactly prepare one to be an assassin.

"He'll cost you, though," Carlisle warned, and I brushed his concern aside.

"I don't care. Whatever it costs."

Carlisle chuckled humorlessly. "There's the Esme Platt I know."

I permitted myself to give him a sly smile. "Oh, don't worry. I'll be billing Renee Swan for her half of the rescue."

"And that's the Esme Platt I love," he said cheekily, standing to his feet and flashing me a brilliant Ken-like smile before disappearing out my office door with the phone number—leaving me stunned and unmanned in his wake.

What had he meant? The Esme Platt he knew and _loved_? He couldn't have possibly meant—no, I ordered myself to believe, that was both fundamentally impossible and completely insane. Carlisle Masen didn't love me; it was completely beyond the realm of possibility. It had just been an expression, a carelessly flung phrase that he hadn't considered beyond the humor of the moment.

If only I could be truly sure I was right.

* * *

**Rosalie**

Even though I was totally exhausted, I couldn't fall asleep after Esme showed Alice and I to our rooms. Mine was decorated in white and a relaxing light turquoise, but I'd spent at least a few hours staring up at the ceiling, worrying about Emmett. Was he still in one piece? Would we ever be together again? Would he end up in jail, or even worse—dead?

But after tossing and turning, I'd finally managed to fall asleep, and when Esme came into my room a few hours later to wake me for dinner, I felt a little better.

"I had some clothes and toiletries sent over," Esme said, turning away to unpack. Her hands went from the open bags to the dresser without once looking at me. I sat up in bed, brushing my hair away from my face. I knew it wasn't coincidence that Esme couldn't meet my eyes—after all, the guy I was involved with was directly responsible for her son being kidnapped by the Red Hands of Ulster.

"Thanks," I said self-consciously, all too aware that the reason I was here was to both help get Edward and Bella back and to make sure that I didn't lose Emmett for good. "That was thoughtful of you. I could have just sent Santiago to get some of my things from my penthouse in Boston."

Esme shrugged a little. "It was no trouble. After all, I had to send for clothes for Alice and Carlisle."

I slid from the bed, my feet hitting the cold wooden floorboards. "I'm sorry for earlier," I said quietly. "Edward has his issues, but he didn't deserve what happened to him. I should never have said what I did."

Esme turned then, her eyes bright and surprisingly glassy. I had seen Esme face down rude society women, obnoxiously drunken party guests, and even nasty putdowns by her son all with aplomb and not a shred of expressed emotion. Today had been the very first time I had ever seen her visibly upset, and now, if I wasn't mistaken, she was close to tears.

"The first time you met him, I . . ." she paused, collecting herself before continuing. "I wanted to tell you to stay away. Edward's father, he was just like Edward is. Irresistible, charming, but so dangerous. I knew it would end this way, and I wanted something different for you. Something better. So I can't be mad that you've found it. I'm only mad that he took my son." She laughed a little self-consciously, and I took her hand in my own.

"We'll get them all back," I said with as much confidence as I could muster.

"Yes," Esme said, pulling her hand away, the mask reappearing over her features. "We'll get them back. Dinner's in an hour. I'll see you then."

The door shut lightly behind her, and I looked up in the mirror over the dresser. I looked the same as I'd looked the day before, and the week before that, but I felt different, as if everything inside me was shifting and morphing. It seemed wrong somehow that my hair was still blond and long and straight and my eyes were still the exact same blue.

A knock on the door broke my silent contemplation of my reflection. I looked away from the mirror, straightening the midnight blue silk pajamas Esme had loaned me as I turned the doorknob and opened the door to Alice.

"Hello," she said shyly. "I wondered if you could talk for a moment."

"Sure," I said, opening the door wider to let her in.

"Esme came to wake me," Alice said, twisting the bottom of her matching pajamas. But though mine were a shade too small for my tall frame, Esme's baby pink pajamas drowned her. "She brought all kinds of clothes for me to wear and . . ."

I knew where she was going with this and interrupted her with a smile. "They aren't knockoffs," I told her. "They're the real deal."

"They _are_," Alice exclaimed breathlessly.

Alice's amazed awe was endearing and I couldn't help smiling with her. "Can I ask where you got yours? They were so good that if I hadn't been so familiar with the original versions, I wouldn't have known the difference." I walked over to the dresser and opened the drawers, and then glanced in the closet, trying to decide what to wear as I talked to Alice.

"I made them," she confessed.

"You made them," I stated, glancing back at her. She looked scared, and had twisted the bright silk hem of her pajamas again. "Without any help?"

"Oh, I had the original to copy," Alice said briskly. "Bella's mother, of course. She was forever sending Bella clothes that she refused to ever wear. So I copied them, and made some extras—just for some friends at first. And then friends of those friends saw them, and wanted versions in their own size or in a different color. We started selling them. And the business just grew from there."

I couldn't help but feel a little impressed. "So you're saying that you make your living creating knockoff designer clothes." I pulled a tunic dress from the closet and laid it on the bed.

Alice nodded. "I _was _anyway. Bella and Renee had a huge argument right before the Athair concert, and we knew there wouldn't be any more clothes."

Why Bella had been with Edward in the first place was beginning to make more sense. She hadn't struck me, at least from Alice's descriptions, as the sort of girl who typically behaved like a groupie, but then neither had I—until Edward had come along.

"Bella's had a Boston music blog for years," Alice explained, "but it's never been popular. Her only entry that got any kind of feedback whatsoever was a skewering of the last Athair album, so she got into her head that she needed to interview him, to get some sort of new perspective so she could turn her blog into something that advertisers wanted to be part of. We needed an income, and she was desperate."

"Desperate enough to go to Edward, dressed as a groupie," I concluded, almost to myself, as I opened the door to the connecting turquoise and white bathroom. "This is beginning to make a lot more sense."

"She was never going to have sex with him," Alice clarified, as if I cared who Edward had slept with. He'd never been exactly faithful to me, and even if he _had _slept with Bella, I couldn't exactly be pissed off about it because I'd been with Emmett.

I shrugged. "Edward and I had been over emotionally for awhile. I just hadn't told him."

"I know I shouldn't, but I have to say that you doing this for Emmett is so romantic."

"Acting as his advocate?" I clarified as I pulled a brush through my hair. Alice leaned against the doorframe and nodded, her gray eyes suddenly a bit calculating.

"You love him, don't you?" she questioned.

I wanted to say no because love had been that sick, twisted, co-dependent, unhealthy obsession that I'd had with Edward. I didn't want to think that what I felt for Emmett was anything similar. "I'm not sure," I confessed. "I do know that I'm so worried about him. Worried about what's going to happen to everyone."

"But you're worried enough about him that you're here, protecting him."

"You don't know Esme," I said, trying to inject a little humor into this increasingly melodramatic conversation.

"Like I said before; romantic. I've got to take a shower. I just wanted to. . .I don't know. . ._gloat _maybe, over the clothes. I would normally tell Bella—she's my best friend, and really my only family, so not having her here is weird. I just wanted someone to talk to, and Esme. . ."

She didn't have to finish that sentence; Esme wasn't the most approachable person I'd ever met. Impulsively, I reached out and hugged her quickly. "It's an unorthodox situation. I don't think that any of us really know to act, even Esme, and that's saying something. So feel free. . .come find me anytime you want to gloat, or even if you _don't _want to gloat. I don't want you to think I'm the enemy because I care about Emmett. He's not the bad guy."

"I know," Alice said. "And I wouldn't ever think he was. He just caught up in a bad situation. But, you're Rosalie Hale, and as much as I'm trying not to be, I'm kind of starstruck." She laughed self-consciously. "Here I am, rambling on about real Dior and Chanel and Versace in my room, for _me _to wear, and you have closets full of the real deal."

"You know, I remember the first time I walked into Bendel's," I told her. "It never gets old. It's special every single time. So please, whenever you feel the desire to fangirl over designers, come find me. We need to stick together." I smiled as reassuringly as I could.

"Alright," Alice said. "I can do that. Now I'll let you put your armor on. Dinner with Esme is going to require it."

As she left, I couldn't help but think that Alice was learning faster than any of us realized.

* * *

**AN: Several people have asked how old Edward and Bella are. Edward is 26. Bella is 25.**


	14. Soundtracks

**AN: I know everyone's missed our naughty punkrockward, so here he is, not just for this chapter but for chapter 14 as well.**

**Thanks to my awesome reviewers, and of course to Miss JosieSwan, who makes this readable :)**

**I have updated the playlist with EVERY single song I mention in this chapter. I would really, really recommend going to listen to some of it, because I don't think some of this chapter will make much sense if you haven't heard the music. Both Bella and Edward are kind of music junkies, as well as being unending sources of musical facts-and let's face it, we're not all like that. So I recommend you check out the music, because while a lot of this story hasn't been about music, this chapter really is.**

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**Edward**

If I had expected things to change drastically after Commando Barbie showed up at the table, I would have been wrong. Nothing changed, and the very sameness of every moment—exactly the same as the one before it—had me more on edge than I'd been in years. Of course, I was used to grinding my sharp edges down with booze and sex, and my two favorite coping mechanisms were completely absent in this hellhole.

Emmett showed up a few hours later—or at least I _guessed _it was a few hours later—acting as if crazy psycho bitch wasn't present and unfortunately accounted for, to let us use the bathroom.

As we had the first time, and the subsequent trips, I went first, followed by Bella. I'd never bothered with a futile attempt _not _to think of Bella while she showered—in fact, I decided that if she ever asked, I would come right out and tell her that the images of water cascading down her naked, wet skin was enough to make me harder than even the goddamn floor. But she didn't ask, of course, and though I'd spent nearly my entire life saying all the things that you weren't supposed to, I found I couldn't. Every single time I opened my big fucking mouth to tell her explicitly just how much I desired her, I would remember the clean, fresh, nearly innocent way she'd tasted when we'd kissed, and then the way Jane's eyes had narrowed at her, and I couldn't do it.

I was half-convinced my dick was going to fall off, probably because all this estrogen in the room was infecting me, but Brit or no, I was definitely softening towards her.

Not my cock, but the rest of me. And, I realized as I shifted on the bed, trying to forget how soft her skin had felt as my fingers had skimmed across its silken surface, it was perhaps the very first time I'd ever given the other parts precedence.

The door opened and as Bella walked in, her damp hair swinging around her shoulders, followed closely by Emmett, I remembered the conversation I'd had with him while I was in the shower.

"Should I be worried about this girl?" I'd asked, as I scrubbed my hair and let it rinse in the measly spray. A Hale hotel, this wasn't.

"Jane?" Emmett's voice was so deceptively casual, if I hadn't known him so well, if we hadn't worked together for so long, I would have thought he could have cared less about Commando Barbie. But instead, I'd tensed, the hot water hitting my back like a poor man's Shiatsu. "She's a non-issue."

"I think she'd kick your ass if she could hear you say that," I'd tried to joke, but the humor had fallen flat in the humid bathroom.

"Yeah I'd pay to see that," Emmett had tried to respond in kind, but his usual confidence was gone. Something, I'd been more sure than ever, was wrong, and the bad feeling deep in the pit of my stomach had clenched hard.

"Emmett," I'd said quietly, "this is bad. Isn't it?"

He'd said nothing at first, the rhythmic pitter-patter of the shower filling the room. "Yeah, I think it's safe to say that we're at a disadvantage." I'd heard everything he wasn't saying—every word he left out because he couldn't, and I'd wished that I didn't know him so damn well. Maybe then I could have stayed comfortably in the dark.

I'd leaned back against the wall of the shower, ignoring the fact that the once-white tiles were grimy with what felt like years of soap scum buildup. And weirdly, the first thought I'd had hadn't been my own skin, but Bella's—smooth and clear and unmarked, inside and out. What would happen to her if we ended up in deep shit? Emmett and I, we had been taking care of ourselves for a long time. If it came down to it, we could take what psychos like Jane dished out. But Bella? I didn't want to know—_never _wanted to know—what it would take to break a girl like her. She pretended to be hard as nails, but I'd had my tongue in her mouth, and I knew she was soft and sweet, like marshmallow fluff.

Looking up at Bella now, those damp tangles of hair falling over her face, now almost more familiar to me than my own, I felt sick. She'd forced Emmett into kidnapping her so that she could get close to me—if this was what responsibility felt like, I wanted no part of it. The knots tightened and I felt the edge of my temper fraying what little control I had left.

Emmett shut and locked the door behind her, leaving us alone again.

It would be so easy to seduce her right now, to dull my edges, but instead of doing what came natural, what I'd always turned to when the ugliness inside threatened to swallow me alive, I swung my legs up onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "If this were a movie, and you were creating the soundtrack, what song would you play right now?" I asked.

"What?" Bella asked, confusion furrowing her brow as she sat down on the bed next to me. "That's a random question, Cullen."

"Just go with it," I snapped. "Would you prefer me not talking again?"

"No, that's perfectly alright. How about _Bad Reputation _by Joan Jett?" She said it with a straight voice and her back was to me, but I could almost _feel _the smirk on her face.

"Very funny. You've clearly established how you feel about _my _reputation."

She shrugged. "I don't know, it's pretty amusing to remind you every chance I get that you're a washed up, womanizing fuckup."

"I'm not a—" I started to argue with her but she took a step closer and placed a single finger on my lips, shutting me up. It was the first time that she'd ever voluntarily touched me and I felt like throwing myself a big fucking parade. I'd known Brit Bitch didn't hate me, but seeing evidence of it was damn sweet.

"How about some Radiohead? I can see _Creep _being kind of ridiculously appropriate right now," Bella smirked, clearly enjoying herself.

"I already know mine," I told her.

"Well, I'm waiting with baited breath," she said, combing through her hair with her fingers, still unaware that while she was snarking away, I was pretty serious.

"_Every Day is Exactly the Same_ by Nine Inch Nails."

"Out of all the songs you could have picked, you picked one by whiny little emo Trent Reznor?"

I'd been expecting Swan to be at least marginally impressed by my selection. Not only was the song not the most commercial of Reznor's offerings, it had a definite poetic, ironic connection to our particular circumstance. But she appeared . . .well. . .slightly less than I'd anticipated. In fact, she didn't appear to be impressed at all.

"Let me guess," she continued, glancing over her shoulder, giving me this banked stare that turned me on more than I'd ever like to admit, "you like _Closer _too."

"It's not a terrible song," I defended. "It's not exactly Reznor's fault that it became so wildly popular. That says something about it; that it was a _good _song."

"It means that pervy little frat boys like to fuck their one night stands to it, and think they're somehow deep and mystical."

"Don't tell me that you don't like Nine Inch Nails," I exclaimed, my voice full of pseudo-outrage.

"Oh, I do. I just have good taste."

"So what Nine Inch Nails songs pass the Bella Swan taste test?"

"Just one, actually."

"Let me guess," I cut in. "_Hurt_."

"No," Bella snapped, but the heat wasn't there. She was, I was sure, smiling at me from behind that curtain of damp hair. "Though I'm kind of surprised you don't _love _that song, considering your own epic fuckedupness."

"Fuckedupness? Is that even a word?"

"I made it up. Deal with it. And for the record, just because I coined the term doesn't mean it isn't applicable to you. You _are _fucked up."

"Not exactly a fucking secret, Swan."

"No," she said quietly, "but I think that I know more of the real reason than almost anyone else. They all think you're wild because you just _are_. But that's not why at all."

"No," I agreed shortly. I needed to return the conversation to the much safer ground it had been on only minutes before; before Brit Bitch had decided to psycho-analyze the shit out of me. "So it's not _Hurt. _I know—the perfect choice for you, Swan. _Head like a Hole_."

"Bow down to the one you serve; you're going to get what you deserve? Oh yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you, Cullen?"

"You bowing down to me? It would pretty much make my whole damn life."

Casually, she slung a leg on the bed, her face only slightly obscured by her hair now. A bit more, and I was pretty sure I could get her to at least lay in bed next to me. No, it wasn't exactly Bella bowing down, but it was better than nothing.

"Never going to happen," she said succinctly. "You have any other bad guesses?"

"I don't see you as a _Starfuckers_ girl—you're way too prim for that. Or for _Deep_. You do like punk, so maybe you could appreciate some anti-establishment _Captial G_. But no, none of those are right."

"Are you done showing off yet?" Bella asked, the corner of her lips quirking up in what was undeniably a small smile.

"Not quite," I said. "I'm just getting started. I raised myself on Reznor's bitter isolationism."

"What a fucking surprise," Bella deadpanned. "And because you're never going to be able to guess, I'll just tell you. It's _The Perfect Drug_."

"Just so you know, I knew it was. I was just giving you crap. Only you would love _The Perfect Drug_. Which is evidence that _you're _the fucked up one."

"It's just so. . .romantic."

"Romantic? A drug addiction? Haven't you ever seen a druggie passed out in their own vomit? Not exactly champagne and roses."

Bella cocked her head, those dark eyes of hers boring into mine. She tucked a strand of hair behind her head and slowly, deliberately, lifted the other leg onto the bed and lay down next to me. "It's a fairly common metaphor. Nine Inch Nails just do it better."

"Who else?" I could think of ten examples off the top of my head, but I wanted to know if she truly knew her shit. She'd said she had a music blog, but that didn't mean she knew crap about music. Most critics I knew wouldn't know good music if it came up and bit them in the ass.

"Alkaline Trio. _This Addiction_."

"Their new stuff isn't nearly as good as before they went mainstream and sold out."

She shrugged. "I liked it. And I don't think you can exactly complain about 'selling out' you fucking hypocrite."

"You're all love tonight," I told her in faux seriousness.

She was silent for a moment, and for the first time tonight, for the first time since the conversation had started, she was truly, undeniably serious. The way I'd wanted this conversation to be when I'd started it. "The first time I heard it . . I cried. I just . . .I knew how he felt. Because of my dad. " She paused for a moment, and then, she sang softly, "_Without you, everything falls apart."_

"_Without you," _I continued, "_it isn't as much fun to pick up the pieces._" I cleared my throat, trying to break the suddenly poignant moment. I was Edward Cullen and I'd never done poignant in my whole fucking life. Except just then, and I felt really freaking weird about it. "So what's your song, for real?"

Bella sighed, so quietly that I almost didn't hear her, though she was lying right next to me. And in it, I could almost hear her thoughts—she knew I was changing the subject, steering us away from some sort of emotionally meaningful conversation and into a musically meaningful discussion instead. Which was exactly what I was doing, but then, she seemed okay with it too, because she answered my question without accusing me of any of the crap she _knew _I was pulling.

"Truthfully? I won't apologize for this, but _A Little's Enough _by Angels & Airwaves."

"_I can fix anything, if you'll just let me near?_ Tsk tsk, I thought you didn't like trite nonsense."

Bella giggled a little. "It's terrible I know. I couldn't even pick good Blink 182. I had to pick their mediocre doppelganger."

"Just for the record, if you thought that I was a crazy effer, you should meet Tom DeLonge. He thinks he's Jesus fucking Christ."

"And you're what? Satan?"

"Something like that," I told her.

"But you did know the song. You even knew the lyrics," Bella pounced, sounding incredibly proud that she'd caught me.

"I have a weird nostalgia for Blink 182. And Angels & Airwaves is better than nothing. Besides, I have this weird memory thing. Listen to a song once, and the lyrics are pretty much locked in. I can recite almost any song, start to finish."

"Almost like a musical photographic memory," Bella said with awe. She was clearly impressed, and I wondered how she could be blown away by my stupid talent instead of by the fact that I'd picked such a great Nine Inch Nails song. _She'd _picked Angels & Airwaves, after all. That wasn't the sort of thing I could forget—or forgive.

"I guess," I said, downplaying it.

"So basically, you're brilliant. And fucked up."

"Don't forget, I'm also Satan." I glanced over at Bella and caught her rolling her eyes.

"What would your blog readers say if you picked an Angels & Airwaves song?" I asked.

"They'd probably revolt. All five of them."

"Wow you really weren't kidding about the poor readership."

Bella sighed, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "I wasn't. I mean. . .I did have one entry that people read—"

"The one about _Aiming to Misbehave_," I interrupted, my voice undeniably resentful.

"Yes," she said uncertainly. "But other than that, it's just. . .boring."

"How can that even be possible? You're a lot of things, Swan, but you're not boring."

"Wow, Cullen, that's by far the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Thank you."

"So what's the problem then," I said, trying to skip right over her thanks. I hadn't even fucking _meant _to compliment her; it had just been _true_. Swan might be annoying and frustrating and downright fucking infuriating, but she wasn't boring. You didn't want to strangle boring women.

"I thought for so long that I needed to be objective. Not subjective. So the entries are all just dull and lacking a personal touch I guess."

"I've said it before to you, and I'll say it again. Music starts and ends with the person. What one person hears can be totally different from what someone else hears. Here, for example. What's your favorite Athair song?"

"_State of Massachusetts_," Bella answered without hesitation. Clearly, she'd had to answer this before, and the answer was just instinctual. "I love the story, I love the hard ass realism of it. And the music is downright brilliant."

"Good choice," I said. I hadn't expected her to pick that song, and though it definitely worked with what I wanted to prove to her, it unnerved me that she'd selected possibly the last song I ever would have guessed she'd pick. "And the story's not about me. I got it out of a Boston newspaper when I was 17. Esme was horrified that I presented it as mine; she demanded then—this was right after Athair was signed—that I change my last name so that nobody would know I was her son."

"How could she be ashamed of you? You're a brilliant musician."

"You'd have to understand Esme Platt to understand. And I'm not exactly anyone understands her. Could or would even _want _to," I added under my breath.

"Esme Platt? _She's _your mother?"

"Hard to picture, isn't it?" I groused.

"Actually no. She'd a cold hard bitch. You're an entitled asshat. It makes perfect sense."

"Wow, thanks. Kind and sympathetic as usual, Swan," I remarked sarcastically, a bit hurt that even when I confessed something almost _nobody _knew, she still couldn't leave the snide attitude behind. When she told me about her dad, I'd been so good, I hadn't even made _one _snarky comment. And here she was, calling me an entitled asshat.

"I'm just. . .in shock I guess. I had no idea."

"Yeah, that's the way it's supposed to be. She doesn't like being associated with the 'dregs of society.'"

"Really, Cullen. I'm sorry. She shouldn't be ashamed. You're brilliant. A wonderful musician."

"So is my point made?" I said, deliberately changing the subject. Yet _again, _we had ended up talking about my fuckedupness—though god knew I was _never _going to use that ridiculous phrase out loud.

"No. It's your turn. Favorite song of yours. I've never heard you admit to liking one better than all the others. Usually you just feed the interviewer some load of bullshit about how they're _all _your favorite."

"I know. There's a reason for that," I groused. "If I said one song that I liked better than any of the others, people would just download that one and ignore the rest. And that's lame."

"But you're going to tell me anyway," Bella said confidently, and I supposed she wasn't far off the mark. After all, I'd just told her about Esme. Confessing what my favorite Athair song was seemed like fairly small beans in comparison.

"_Tessie_," I admitted.

"Really? That one? _Why_?"

"Clearly you didn't grow up in Boston," I told her. "Or else you'd understand. _Tessie _combines two of the best things in the entire world—punk rock and baseball. The chorus pretty much makes me jizz in my pants."

"You're ridiculous," Bella said, but I could tell she was more amused than annoyed. "I never understood the whole appeal of baseball. It's so boring to watch. Nine tenths of the time, nothing is fucking happening."

"Not true," I argued. "A _lot _is always happening, you just have to know what to look for."

"I'll take your word for it," she said wryly.

"Honestly, I'm kind of shocked you didn't pick _Float. _Or _Laura_."

"Instead of _State of Massachusetts_? Why?"

I shrugged. "You're a girl. Some raw, horrible story about child abuse isn't usually what girls like."

"I thought we'd established that I wasn't like most girls."

"Still. Every girl I've ever met tells me about how _Laura _makes their knees all mushy."

"My knees are fine. They don't develop the consistency of mashed potatoes over a song. Besides, I never thought that _Laura _sounded much like you."

"And that, Swan, is what you should be writing about. About how you're different. Not about some objective shit about how many stars you're giving the latest Alkaline Trio sellout record." I paused. "And for the record, I wrote the music for _Laura_—but not the lyrics. So you were right. It's not really me."

"I knew it," Bella said triumphantly, partially sitting up. "The lyrics were so sweet and romantic; I knew you weren't capable of that kind of feeling."

"Again with the compliments. . ." I said sarcastically.

"Are you?"she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Capable of that sort of thing?"

"Truthfully? Sometimes I think that the part of me that could have fallen in love died so long ago that it's shriveled into nothing."

"What you need is some serious therapy," Bella sighed, "but I can understand your fuckedupness even better now. Wow. Esme Platt."

"Are we back on that?" I said partially rolling to the side, so my back was to her, hoping this would indicate I was totally done with this conversation. We couldn't stay on music; but then, maybe that was my whole point with Bella. Music wasn't something you could divorce from emotions. The two went hand in hand—take one without the other, and both lost their transformative power.

"You know, we have more in common than you realize," Bella said, her tone of voice deceptively casual. "Our fathers are both dead. And we have famous mothers who don't approve of us."

"Swan? Swan?" I ransacked my brain trying to think of anyone famous I knew with the last name, but nobody came to mind, until I glanced over at her, from over my shoulder, and something in the way that the tiny bit of light reflected off her cheekbones suddenly made total sense.

"You're Renee Swan's daughter," I told her triumphantly. "Of course you are. You look just like her."

Bella gaped. "You see it? The resemblance?"

Now that I'd realized it, I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before. I'd said Bella was hot—after all, I'd gone after her pretty damn quick the first moment I'd seen her—but now I couldn't look at her without realizing just how beautiful she really was. "Of course," I told her. "It's obvious."

"Um, not so much. She has blond hair, blue eyes. My hair and my eyes are both brown."

"But your faces—what made Renee Swan so beautiful by the way—they're almost exactly alike."

"Ergo," Bella asked with wonder, "you think I'm beautiful?"

"I want to have sex with you, don't I?" I hated the note of amazement in her voice, as if she had no idea how stunning she was, and I had just revealed all to her. I didn't want to be the savior of her fucked up self-image; I just wanted to tell her that I'd _definitely _tap that.

"That didn't answer my question," Bella said sternly.

"Fine. You're beautiful. Is that better?"

"Yes," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. I was sure if I looked at her she'd be positively beaming. "But don't think that means I'll let you seduce me. A few compliments are nothing."

"Of course not," I said sarcastically. "I would never think that. You're made of much sterner stuff. Your self-control is ironclad."

"Cullen, don't turn this into a 'I won't have sex with you' issue."

"Believe me, you'll have a sex with me. It's only a matter of when. And maybe I've decided that right now is a good time." I loved playing the cocky card and seeing Bella's hackles go up, which they inevitably did. It was way too easy to piss her off.

"It's a matter of when hell freezes over. And right now is definitely not that time." She sounded a lot more convinced than she had before, which made no sense to me. When we'd kissed, she'd been just as enthusiastic about the prospect as I had, and really, wasn't a lack of activity on that front supposed to make her want me _more_, not less? Because I sure as hell wanted her more. The razor sharp edge of my temper flared back a little, and I found myself staring at her, as she resolutely avoided meeting my eyes. She was definitely beautiful, I thought, taking in the amazing curves and planes of her facial structure. I wanted her watch that mouth gasp in pleasure, watch the curve of her cheek as she lowered herself onto me.

And that was when I realized for the very first time, I hadn't given a single thought to Bella's other, much more _vital _parts during this particular round of fantasizing. They were still there, I thought, with a quick glance to her chest as it rose and fell with her steady breaths, but I hadn't actively thought of them while I'd fantasized about fucking her.

This was weird, I decided. Weird and strange and not quite right. Who cared about the curve of a woman's cheek when there was tits and ass and firm, flat stomachs? And Bella's long, slender legs? I needed to stay focused on what was really important here.

"Fine," I said, as if I didn't care at all if she didn't ever give it up, which was definitely not true. I'd just realized that I didn't want her to give up when she didn't want to. I wanted her to come to me and slide that fuckamazing body up mine and murmur in my ear that she was desperate for me.

Of course, hell probably _would _freeze over before she did that.

The sound of the lock mechanism on the door made me jump and I met Bella's eyes with trepidation. Once we'd been "taken" care of, we were never bothered so soon afterwards. There was a comfort in routine, and this departure made the nervous knots in my stomach tighten. I could tell from the way that Bella's hand gripped the sheet next to her that she too was feeling uneasy about this abrupt change.

The door opened and I sat up as light flooded into the room. Instead of Emmett's big bulky figure, I felt my stomach drop onto the floor as the lean, lethal figure of Jane emerged into our cell.

She said nothing, only stared at me and Bella with those hard, dark, empty eyes. Even more than before, I was convinced that she was completely capable of committing unspeakable atrocities and not batting an eye. She didn't _care _about anything and the apathy radiated off of her in sick, nauseating waves.

But then, just as suddenly as she'd appeared, her entire expression changed, shifting into something vaguely resembling adoration and worship. I was confused—she wasn't _staring _at me like that, was she? I shuddered at the thought. But then, a man walked in behind her.

It wasn't Emmett, though they were built on similar lines—tall and _big_. Not fat, just beefy. I couldn't see him properly at first because his bulk was partially obscuring the light streaming in from the doorway, but then he moved in closer and everything inside went ice cold.

Looking into his face was like looking into a mirror. The eyes that stared back at me could have been _mine_, except that his were cold, like Jane's, and fucking scary as hell.

Who was I kidding? It didn't matter how dead they were, the fact that we had the exact same eyes was scary enough on its own.

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I felt my hand slide against the sheet until I felt Bella's warm clammy skin against my own. Gripping her fingers tightly in my own, I forced myself to look back up into _myself_.

"Edward," the man sneered, and everything went from a mere chill to a temperature resembling Antarctica. I could tell he _knew _my name wasn't Edward, which meant he knew my _real_ name.

I wanted to ask if he was my dad, if Esme had lied to me my entire life, but the question stuck in my suddenly unresponsive throat. So I just nodded, weirdly transfigured by those eyes that were so like my own.

"It's been a long time. I don't expect ye remember me," he said and I could hear the lyrical cadence of the accent in his vowels.

"No."

"Ye look just like your da," he said, taking a step closer.

Well, that answered that question. He definitely wasn't my father. I didn't know whether to be fucking bummed or elated. I dug my fingers harder into Bella's skin, and she gripped mine back just as fiercely. I knew how scared she was, because _I _was fucking terrified. I couldn't imagine how she was feeling.

Get a fucking grip, I ordered myself, who cares what Bella's feeling. This is all her fault. She wouldn't even be here, if she'd been smart. I knew I should let go of her hand, put the distance back between us, but I fucking couldn't. The only thing that was keeping me sane was the feel of her fingers clamped around mine.

The man stared at me, almost as if he was measuring my worth. I was really glad that he couldn't see that I was holding _hands _with the girl next to me, because this looked like the kind of guy who would rather chop his hand off than do anything so pussy-whipped.

"I'm Niall," he said finally. "Better known as Aro. The Red Hands are mine—they are now. They used to be me and your da's." He paused, looking at me hard, until I was sure he could see right through all my stupid posturing. "I'm your da's brother."

_My uncle_. Esme had never mentioned that my father had had a brother, but then that didn't surprise me; as a rule, she never spoke of her time in Ireland if she could help it. I didn't know if it was because it was just too painful or because she wished that she'd never let herself fall in love with a member of the IRA.

"Your ma didn't tell you about me," Niall stated, rather than questioned, clearly able to see the panic and surprise on my face.

I shook my head. "No big surprise. She never liked me. She never liked any of us."

Yeah, because you're a militaristic organization that's fucking scary, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't know what I was supposed to feel, meeting my dead father's brother, but whatever I was feeling definitely wasn't expected.

"Why am I here?" I finally asked.

He threw his head back and laughed, the creepy as fuck sound echoing around the nearly empty room. "Don't you know, boy? You're here to take your place. Your rightful place."

My rightful place. The place I'd always thought I'd wanted. I should be fucking ecstatic now; they had _finally _come for me, after so many years of wondering and wanting to be part of my legacy. I should be feeling more. . .excited, I decided. I should be definitely feeling something other than dread.

"Jane," he barked. "Watch the girl. Edward's coming with me."

I didn't know anything except for one single fact—I was sure that if I let go of Bella's hand, I was going to fucking fall apart. For the first time since Jane and Niall had entered the room, I glanced over at her. Her eyes were huge in her face, and I could nearly read her thoughts now. She didn't want me to leave her with Jane, and I realized I didn't want to. I didn't want to go with Niall, and I didn't want her to have to deal with Commando Barbie.

In the end, we had no choice. I released her hand, and slowly got to my feet feeling woozy and more than a little nauseous.

"That's my boy," Niall said, clapping me hard on the shoulder.

Words I had always longed to hear. Maybe it was that they were just too fucking late. Maybe because I had never really understood what hearing them would mean. But all I wanted was for him to fucking take them back and leave.

Honestly, it was even more than that—I wanted him and Jane to crawl back into the hole they'd come from and leave us alone for good. I wanted to talk to Esme, and tell her that I was sorry for all the times I'd scoffed at her arguments that the Red Hands were dangerous and not to be trifled with.

But now, it was all too late for that.

* * *

**AN: So what did everyone think of the music? Let's a play a game-what was your favorite song they talked about? Did you hate all of them? Could you not pick a favorite?**

**My favorite song is also Bella's-"The Perfect Drug" by Nine Inch Nails. In my opinion, about 100x sexier than "Closer."**


	15. The Sandwich

**AN: I loved hearing everyone's favorite songs. . .The Perfect Drug seems to be a favorite of many of you as well :)**

**Thanks to my awesomesauce beta, JosieSwan. Playlist updated with one, perfect, amazing song for this chapter: "Breakable" by Ingrid Michaelson. I highly recommend you check it out.**

* * *

**Edward**

As I followed Niall—I couldn't think of him as my uncle, the idea was just too foreign, too completely divorced from anything I understood—my insides shook like the trees on the Boston streets right before the first snow of fall, the leaves bouncing and fluttering to the ground. I decided that it wasn't a blot on my masculinity to be scared right now; wasn't part of truly being a man the ability to acknowledge fear when it was warranted?

There was no question. It was totally fucking warranted right now. Niall didn't glance back as we turned down another dark corridor. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I missed the sun and the sky and the fresh air against my skin. The house seemed to have either been selected for its lack of windows or else it had been purposely remodeled so that when you were inside, you were completely inside—without the ability to even _glimpse_outside.

Finally, we entered a den-like room, dominated by a big wooden desk, covered in papers and magazines and newspapers. Niall took the chair behind the desk—it was nearly as big as the desk, and I would have to be a lot more scared not to recognize it for the metaphorical throne that it was. He waved me to a folding chair in front of the desk and I sat.

He said nothing at first, only looked at me with those fucking familiar green eyes, taking me apart one cell at a time, until I was sure he could see all my flaws as clear as day. I shifted uncomfortably on the chair, and wished, stupidly, to be back on that uncomfortable cot. If only because then, I wouldn't be alone, facing down my uncle.

"You really didna know about me," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.

"No. Esme. . .she doesn't like talking about her time in Ireland."

"She loved Eoghan. That much I know."

I had always wondered about this. Why else would she have stayed in Ireland, abandoned her family and her friends and turned her back on her entire life in Boston, if she hadn't? But whenever I'd asked, she'd been so reluctant to talk about it, and when she did, her voice was always disparaging of the experiences she'd had there, even of the people she'd met.

But she'd loved my father. . .or at least she had according to the man in front of me.

"How much do ye know? About us? About your legacy?"

"Not much," I stuttered. "Esme. . .she never wanted to discuss it. But, I finally got her to tell me the truth when I was 16. Who my father was, what he was part of. She didn't want to tell me the name of your group, but I forced her. I had more power over her then," I said ruefully. "Not so much anymore."

"Eoghan, he was charmin'. Could charm any woman he wanted. And he wanted your ma. I never understood why, she was a cold fish. Hard. Spoiled. And so young."

I shrugged. "There's no explaining the vagaries of the human heart. Which is why I ignore it."

Niall grinned at this. "You're like me, my boy."

I was more than a little surprised to hear this. "What? You know about me? About what my life is like?"

"You think we don't know about you? We been watchin' you since you were a lad. I told ye, you're here to take your rightful place." There was a steeliness, a cold deadliness in those familiar eyes that chilled me to the bone.

"But why now? The Troubles are over."

I watched as a thunderstorm broke over Niall's face. "They aren't," he roared, his face growing red and florid with temper. He pounded on the desk with one big meaty fist. "They'll never be over. Not while I'm alive."

Later, I would look back on this first conversation with my uncle, with my father's brother, and realize that it was this moment that convinced me once and for all that he had lost his grip on reality. Maybe it had never been very good to begin with, but with the destruction and dismantlement of the entire culture and infrastructure that had always supported him, had driven him since he was a mere boy in school, he had become progressively lost.

But now, I just gaped at him. I didn't understand; couldn't possibly comprehend. I sang of Ireland, of independence, of soldiers giving their lives, of blood and sacrifice, but I knew then that I could never truly be one of them. I didn't have the fire in the blood, the die-hard obsession. Niall had it in spades, and I wondered if my father, if Eoghan, had had it too.

But I knew better than to wonder—my father had died for what he believed in. There could be no greater evidence of your passion than to become a martyr for it.

"I see. So why am I here then?"

"I told ye before. You're here to take your rightful place."

"I don't understand. I'm a musician. I don't know anything about. . .all this." I didn't know exactly what all _this_ was, but I did know it was totally foreign. While I liked to pretend that I'd grown up rough and wild, on the streets of Boston, fighting against the injustice of the system, I'd had every privilege and opportunity handed to me on a fucking silver platter. I'd never once been forced to go without. The only battles I'd fought had been against conformity and all of Esme's expectations.

"We know."

"We?"

"You met Jane. She's my right hand. At least after Eoghan . . ."

"After he died." I forced the words out of my tight throat.

"Your da sacrificed everything for what he believed in. You're his son."

There was a poetic irony in Niall's words. I'd spent most of my adolescent and teenage years and beyond doing every damn thing I could to get my father's family's attention. Their acceptance, their fucking _interest_, had always been the holy grail that I strived for. Maybe not necessarily _positive _attention, but attention at all. To an extent, I'd become famous so that when they looked at a magazine, they'd see _him_ in me. My life was a fucked up combination of a huge middle finger to the family who'd rejected me and unhealthy practices of negative reinforcement.

And now they apparently wanted me, just like I'd always wanted them to, and I couldn't wait to fucking leave them in the dust. That was family for you—you thought you wanted them until you met them, and you found out that they were soulless, weirdo motherfuckers.

"What do you want me to do?"

Niall opened his mouth, probably to blab some shit about 'taking my da's place,' as if that explained everything. No, I was Esme Platt's son and that meant I needed shit fucking nailed down. Like what exactly I would be doing in my father's place. Were they going to train me to be an assassin a la _Wanted_? And if that was the case, where was my Angelina Jolie? It sure as fuck wasn't that Jane character. I wouldn't touch her scary, skinny ass with a ten foot pole.

"No," I interrupted him, more forcefully this time. He'd been playing the high king for long enough; if he was king then I was a fucking prince, and I deserved a hell of a lot better than I was getting. I didn't want to do shit for these people, but if I could use some of my position to leverage Bella and I better conditions and Emmett a way out, then I would do it. "Tell me what you mean."

"You leave your life behind. You use your money and your power and your influence to get attention for our cause."

"What cause? Because from my vantage point, it kind of looks like you're reduced to small time shit, because the Troubles –and the power of the IRA—is officially over, no matter how you'd like to tell yourself otherwise," I said, telling myself that I needed balls of steel to go toe to toe with Niall. He still scared the shit out of me, but the more I visibly let him, the less effective I'd be.

"Enough," Niall suddenly bellowed, shooting to his feet, the fists hitting the desk with a resounding crash. I couldn't help it, I flinched at his roar and the demonstration of his far greater strength. And if that wasn't enough, the door opened behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Jane shoot in through the doorway, more emotion on her face than I'd seen in our first two encounters.

"Niall," she crooned, eyes only for the man in front of me. "Does this _boy," _she spat, "dare to upset you?"

As she wrapped those long, stringy, overly muscled arms around Niall, I barely repressed a shudder. I'd been right, I thought, as I stared helplessly at the pair of them, they _were _sleeping together.

It was a trainwreck, and I couldn't look away. Despite her far smaller stature, Jane pulled him down to the chair, hands sure and practiced. This wasn't the first time she'd calmed him down, I realized; she did this on a regular basis. Which just filled me with confidence that I'd manage to get out of here without provoking any murderous rage.

What had I been thinking, to basically tell someone who was clearly unhinged, that the obsession that drove every single action of his entire life was over? I'd obviously been suicidal, I realized, as I watched Jane settle Niall down by wrapping her arms even tighter around him. God, I hoped that they stopped at just that, because I wasn't sure I could keep my peanut butter and jelly down if I was exposed to any more of their sick peep show.

And of course, I had just thought this when Niall grabbed Jane's long blond braid and hauled her even closer, until she had no choice except to literally _mount _him while he sat on the chair.

Bile rose in my throat as she devoured him like a fucking Venus fly trap. Her leather clad body rose and fell on him and I prayed that they both stayed clothed, because there were limits of what I wanted to see, and my newly-discovered uncle's hairy ass was not on the list.

Finally, they broke apart, so reluctantly that for a split second, I wondered if it was possible they were in love—but then I remembered what Niall had boasted of earlier. He'd said he was like me. . .so then the adoration must be only one-sided, and it was clearly adoration. Or obsession. Sick fucks.

Jane finally dismounted, but didn't leave Niall's side, as my uncle's eyes rose to meet mine. They were still dead, still empty, still exactly like mine. The only change was the gloating triumph lurking in their depths. He'd _wanted _me to see him lose control, _wanted _me to see Jane calm him down, and _wanted _to put me back in my place.

I'd said it before, but I'd say it again and again and again: sick fucking _fucks_.

"Jane. Take Edward back to his room. He needs some more. . ._time_. . .to consider the consequences of his words," Niall ordered, never blinking, never glancing away—like a python stalking his prey.

Fuck being the Prince; I just wanted to get out of here with my balls intact.

"Anything you command," Jane purred, before turning to me, her entire expression freezing over as her eyes found me. "Come," she barked at me. "You have disturbed Aro long enough."

"Besides," she said, with a sly undertone, as we exited the office, "I'm sure your friend has missed you."

"What did you do to her?" I demanded, another wave nausea rolling through me like a freight train.

Jane merely shrugged, a smile playing across her thin lips. "I never touched her. Though that may not always be the case."

I wanted to argue, to insist that Bella was _never _to be touched, but the muscles in Jane's ropey arms flexed and I remembered that despite her size, not only was she capable of kicking my ass, she was definitely capable of a lot more.

So I said nothing, just kept my eyes down, on the ground, trying to be the most obedient prisoner that I could. And I was undoubtedly a prisoner. I didn't know the game that Niall and this sick bitch were playing with me, but I knew it wasn't as easy as me conceding to their demands for my time and my money and my influence. They were after something else, maybe something that I wasn't even capable of giving—perhaps they were just toying with me because they _could_.

Jane unlocked the door, and just as swiftly, closed it behind me. I heard the lock fall into place as I looked up to see Bella crouched on the bed, staring resolutely at an object on the floor in front of her.

"Are you okay?" I asked, her hunched posture so different than how she'd been when I'd left her. I walked closer and discovered the object Bella staring at was actually a sandwich. Peanut butter and fucking jelly.

"Is this your food?" I asked. "Why is it on the floor?" Bella looked up at me then, and the fury and the hatred in her eyes was flaming and spectacular. This girl, I realized with a jolt of electricity, wasn't icy. She was a fucking inferno.

"_She _put it there." Bella finally spoke, and it was a cross between a snarl and a hiss. I'd thought that all her witty snappy insults had been hateful, but I was discovering that with Bella, less was more. When she was really mad, she clearly said almost nothing at all, just stared at the object of her abject loathing like she could force it to spontaneously combust.

"Jane? Well. For god's sake, take it off the floor. It's probably way past the ten second rule." I started to reach down to pick it up, because we were in deep enough shit without Bella contracting some kind of horrific disease from eating food that had been on the floor, but her arm reached out and grabbed mine.

"Don't touch it," she growled. "I won't fucking eat anything she throws on the floor for me—like I'm her fucking dog."

"You're nobody's fucking dog," I reasoned with her. "Just because she's clearly a psychotic bitch doesn't define you in the least."

"Don't touch it," Bella said again, her fingers still clenched around my arm like talons.

"Look," I said, trying for a conversational tone, even though the encounter I'd just had with my uncle and Jane had nearly made me pee my pants, "I get that your sandwich is on the floor, which sucks, it really does. But leaving it there doesn't mean that you win and she loses. It just means that _you _lose, because then you can't eat it. And you've got to eat, so you can keep your strength up because we're going to get out of this, and I need you in top shape for that."

The fingers relaxed slightly, but I still couldn't budge, so I kept going. "If this is your way of telling me that you're okay, you're doing a damn weird job of it." I tried segueing into a jovial tone of voice, but I'd apparently lost my ability to be casual because it came out of my mouth totally wrong—like I was seriously concerned about her. Which I wasn't. At all.

"She didn't touch me," Bella said, her voice ragged and furious. "But I wanted her to." She looked up at me, those dark eyes burning like Rome. "Is it wrong that I wanted her to fucking kick my ass instead of throwing me my food like a dog?"

"You're not a dog," I reassured again. "_Not _a dog."

"But that's the way she treated me." Bella was nearly incandescent with the injustice of it.

"Again, she's a crazy psychotic bitch, who I just watched sexually maul my uncle."

Bella's gaze snapped from the unfortunate sandwich to me. "She _what_?" Her voice was growing kind of hysterical and I realized I'd decided way too quickly that she wasn't the hysterical sort. There was still definitely time for her fall apart and I guessed that the enormity of our situation was finally hitting her.

"Ah, well. . .there was an unfortunate bump and grind act that I was privy to, but it doesn't matter. The sandwich, clearly, is the crime here."

"It _is_," Bella was suddenly on her feet, some kind of unholy rage lighting up her face. I thought it definitely might be masochistic that I thought she was hotter like this than even Bella-as-a-groupie. She stalked up and down the room, her sneakers slapping the floor. "How dare she fucking treat me this way? I never asked for this—I don't deserve to be treated like shit."

I almost opened my mouth to tell her that she _had_ asked for all of this. And she hadn't just asked. According to Emmett, she'd pretty much blackmailed into taking her with me. I saw the abrupt change dawn over her expression the second she realized what she said was the exact opposite of the truth.

"But I did," she said softly, her face suddenly pale and drawn as she gazed down at the sandwich lying at her feet. "I _did_ ask for this." And then she burst into hard, wrenching sobs.

I was a big fan of brutal honesty, but looking at the devastation that Jane had wrought on Bella's emotional health, I thought it probably not the best plan to agree with her. I wished I could say something else and have her not instantly recognize it as a fucking platitude, but she was unerringly correct that she was the only one to blame in this particular situation.

"I know," I said awkwardly, extending a hand to where she sat on the corner of the bed, her head in her hands, as her fear poured out of her like a water faucet. I felt some weirdly desperate desire to comfort her, to wipe away the dampness from her pale cheeks, and tell her that as terrified as she was, I was just as fucking scared. But that would constitute not only emotional sharing—which Edward Cullen had never done in his entire fucking life—but also sympathy. And I didn't sympathize as a general rule, especially not with anyone who deserved every ounce of the shit storm they'd brought on their heads.

So I just sat there, next to her, my arm on her leg in the most nonsexual way possible, and let her cry. Finally, after what must have been an eternity of me debating with myself on what Edward Cullen would _do _in this situation, her hiccupping sobs lessened slightly, and she lifted her head from her hands.

She had never looked less beautiful. Bella wasn't like Rosalie, who cried prettily, and who's eyes or face or nose never got red, as becoming crystal tears dropped down her curved cheekbones one at a time. Bella's face was a wreck—it was wet and red and blotchy, with what could only be snot under her nose. No, she'd never been _less _appealing, and weirdly, strangely, with a realization that was about as un-Edward Cullen like as I could possibly get, I had never liked her more.

I reached over before I could even stop myself, to analyze every single action against the accepted norm of what being me was like, and brushed a strand of her hair away from that pitiful face. "Are you alright?" I asked, as if I cared, which, I found, even more oddly, that I did.

I told myself that it was mere scientific interest; the ice queen had finally begun to melt and I was merely witnessing the scene. Originally, I had wanted to break through that cold shell with seduction and red hot lust, but in the end, what had ended Bella's deep freeze was merely a sandwich on the floor.

Bella began to nod, but halfway through the action, changed it to a firm shake instead. "No," she whispered, her voice raw, "I'm not okay. I can't be okay."

Unspoken between us was the reason why she wasn't okay—because no matter how much she'd like to blame someone else for her current predicament, there was nobody else but her. It was completely _her _fault. If she hadn't stuck her damned cute nose into Emmett's business, she wouldn't be here right now. She would be back in her apartment in Boston, typing out her boring, inconsequential music blogs and she and I would never have met. She never would have told me about her scathing review of my album, and I never would have tried to seduce her. My first words to her wouldn't have been a demand she remove her clothes. My fingers wouldn't have brushed her skin with desire and purpose. They would have found some other skin to feel, but it wouldn't, I realized, have felt quite like Bella's.

And then the truth hit me like a fucking brick to the face.

If Bella had been smart, if she had thought with her head, had used that mile-wide streak of logic she had, she wouldn't be here, and I would have been alone.

Alone with Jane. Alone with Niall.

"You don't have to be okay," I told her. I wasn't a fan of the comforting lie. I wasn't going to disrespect Bella by forcing anything like that down her throat. She was upset and she had every right to be.

She turned to me then, finally wiping her eyes and nose on the corner of her tank top. "Are you alright?" she whispered. "I forgot about Niall—I mean not exactly _forgot _—but Jane unhinged me so fucking hard."

"No, it's okay. I understand." More truths; though to the man inside who had made a lifetime out of perfecting the Edward Cullen Doesn't Give a Flying Fuck About You Act, it sounded like something completely different. "And no," I told her, hating that I was practically handing her my balls on a silver platter, "I'm not alright."

"I didn't think so. You looked . . ." Bella trailed off. "When he told you," she finally clarified at my confused expression.

Before I could even stop myself, my mouth opened and I confessed to her what I'd thought during that awful instant in time. "I thought, for a split second, before he told me otherwise, that he was my father."

Bella shuddered—precisely my reaction when I'd had the thought. "I'm glad he wasn't, though it's bad enough this way," she whispered.

I nodded in agreement. "He wants me to join him. Join them."

"You didn't," she stated, but didn't question. She appeared to already know that I'd turned them down, which made no sense—and not that I had necessarily _turned _them down. I'd just tried to understand why it was still even necessary to fight for Irish freedom when the Troubles had been officially over for years. I hadn't given Niall an answer one way or the other, though I knew which one I _wanted _to give him.

"No," I confirmed. "Not yet. Or not at all. I don't know."

"You wouldn't still be here, with me, in this room, if you'd said yes," she said sadly. "Maybe you should have."

Brutal honesty time. "I thought about it," I told her. "I definitely considered it." What I neglected to mention was that I had almost done it, not necessarily just for myself, but for her and Emmett too. That, I decided, was information that she didn't need to know. She already had my balls, she didn't need that tiny part of me that still had a conscience.

"They'll be back," Bella said, lifting her eyes towards the door. "You know they will be."

"I know." And I would have to find something to tell them, something to placate them, but not something that would tie me to them for the rest of my fucking life. I'd known I couldn't, the moment I'd walked back into this room and seen that damn sandwich on the floor in front of Bella. I couldn't ever support people who were that sadistically fucked up.

"You should eat the sandwich," I said to her. "Really. You need to keep your strength up." Our eyes met, and I glanced down at the offending item on the floor. I could do this, I thought to myself, I could _do _this and make it all just the tiniest bit easier on her.

I reached down and picked it up, not missing the way that she froze next to me. I brushed it off on the corner of my shirt, probably removing none of the germs and adding a few of my own. "All better," I said, extending it towards her. "Now eat."

She hesitated, staring at it, and I knew it was so much bigger than just two pieces of cheap white bread with peanut butter and jelly smeared between them—it was pride and honor and respect. But she wasn't, I decided, going to fucking pick it up herself. She could eat it if someone else had picked it up, and we both knew, I had a whole lot less pride to sacrifice.

"Okay," she said in a small voice, extending her hand and taking it from me. She stared at it for a long time, not eating, just. . ._staring_.

"Trust me, it's not going to magically change into something more appealing," I tried joking, to lighten the oppressive silence.

"I know. I just. . .it's just a sandwich," she said with a note of wonder in her voice. "I thought while I was crying that it was so much more than a sandwich—that it was everything. But it's not."

"No," I said, all too fucking aware of the gratitude in her eyes, "it's just a sandwich."

* * *

**AN: I won't lie; I cried writing this last part of the scene. I love discovering the real person beneath Edward's fuckedupness, to use a favorite word of Bella's.**

**So I ask all of you. . .was it just a sandwich? Or was it more?**


	16. Alice's Aspirations

**AN: Happy Day After 4th of July! I hope everyone had a lovely holiday (or if you're not in the US, that you had a lovely weekend!)**

**Thanks to my kick ass beta, JosieSwan and also to izzzyy, who is quickly discovering how much hand-holding I really need.**

**And finally, for the long awaited Esme vs Renee smackdown. . .**

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* * *

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**Alice**

The second day after Bella and Edward's abduction dawned cool and bright, morning dew beading on each individual blade of Esme Platt's perfect lawn. The green carpet stretched out as far as I could see as I stepped onto the wide veranda that wrapped around the back of the huge house.

It was still early, only 8 in the morning, but the intensely blue sky overhead promised that the day would be summerlike. I pulled the tiny white cardigan around my shoulders, the ruffles of the baby pink Milly dress I wore fluttering in the breeze. Self-consciously, I brushed the light, airy fabric, exulting in the feel and the luxury of ownership. I'd worn another designer dress the night before to dinner, but putting another on this morning had really cemented that no matter how much Esme Platt might scare the ever living shit out of me, she had impeccable taste in clothes and she was incredibly generous.

There were thousands of dollars worth of designer merchandise in my room, all for me to wear, and Esme firmly told me, to _keep_. I'd been up half the night trying on dress after dress, blouses, skirts, and jeans—accessorizing with the wonderful costume jewelry that Esme's personal shopper had sent. And the shoes. . .those had literally almost brought me to tears.

I glanced out at the jewel-like expanse of green grass that spread out before me, and then down at the nude Elie Tahari wedges that I'd chosen to go with this dress. I'd come outside because, having explored the interior of Esme's fabulous house, I'd wanted to do the same with the grounds, but I definitely wasn't going to sacrifice this incredible pair of shoes in the process. Taking a tentative step on the grass, I found the ground was solid and only the very tips of the grass were wet. I wouldn't ruin a pair of shoes by tromping all over the lawn, so I set off to see exactly what compromised Esme's Hyannis Port estate.

The house itself was a tiny blur in the distance by the time I had reached the edge of Esme's property. I'd passed a rose garden, a fountain surrounded by several antique wrought iron benches, and even more lawn. There were trees at the edge of the property, and I couldn't resist the urge to look between them, wondering what I'd see next door, if Esme's house was this incredible.

While her house was all modern Country French meets Long Island luxury, the estate next door was a faux Mediterranean that stuck out like a sore thumb. It was huge and imposing, yes, but I had to admit that I vastly preferred Esme's choice, which seemed to rise out of the landscape so elegantly. As if Esme Platt would ever do anything that _wasn't _elegant, I thought with a smile as I turned to move on, ready to see the dock and boathouse that Rose had described over dinner the night before, but before I could, I heard the sound of someone walking through the grass close by.

I turned back to the Mediterranean monstrosity and saw a man, tall and lean, wearing a stained white t-shirt and ripped khaki cargo shorts paired with ratty sneakers approaching. He was admittedly very good looking—his hair was the color of antique gold and worn long, until it touched the tips of his ears, and his features were well-shaped and chiseled. I stopped in my tracks, and watched him walk, completely unaware that he wasn't alone, next to the trees I was standing next to. I considered briefly saying hello, but with a second glance at his attire, decided that he must be the gardener.

I wasn't a snob, necessarily, and I hated that this experience had to come at the expense of the safety of Bella, who I loved dearly, but I wanted to make the most of this time I had, in the lap of luxury, and that definitely didn't include befriending gardeners. Now, if he'd _owned _the house, that might have been a different story. I might have informed him of a few ways he could tone down the outré décor of his house, and help it blend in better with its surroundings, but as it was, I decided that it would just be better to go.

"Hey there." Damn, I thought, as I heard his voice behind me, he'd spotted me first.

"Hello," I said politely, facing him. His smile was bright and wide, and genuine, crinkling the corners of his amber tiger eyes. "It's a lovely morning." It was, after all, a gorgeous day, and if I had to pass a few minutes of conversation with such an undeniably attractive man, then it wasn't the end of the world. Besides, there wasn't anyone to admire my new clothes except for me and my mirror, and I was beginning to chafe at having all these incredible new things without a place to wear them.

"I'm Jasper," he said, extending a calloused hand. "I'm surprised to see you here. Esme rarely has guests."

I thought it was a little odd that he'd referred to Esme Platt so informally, but I was too caught up in the way the light hit his hair and reflected off the lean tan muscles his white shirt was barely hiding to really consider the implications.

I shook his hand, noticing that his almost dwarfed mine. "I'm Alice. I'm visiting with Rosalie Hale." Let him think, I thought to myself, that I was just another vain, self-absorbed society princess. I decided that it was like a role, an image I projected onto myself—a harmless little vacation from having to be struggling fashion-appropriator Alice Brandon, who was used to window-shopping and never buying.

"Ah. That explains it. Esme must be having a party then." His voice and his body language almost instantly shifting when I mentioned Rosalie. Clearly, he knew her type and what kind of women she would associate with, and, as per my intention, I'd been automatically grouped with her.

I shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to the man before me and even to myself that I didn't care if Jasper No-Last-Name suddenly thought I was a snobby rich bitch. "It's very small. Exclusive." _So exclusive that the only way you get an invitation is if you know someone that Emmett kidnapped_.

"Well, have fun." Jasper turned and walked away, and as I watched his retreating figure, I remembered all the times in the last forty eight hours that Rose had wistfully spoken of wanting to disappear, to suddenly become normal. I'd thought she was crazy—after all, who wouldn't want to be Rosalie Hale with her closets full of designer clothes, full-color spreads in _US Weekly _and _People_, and her ability to open every door and walk every red carpet?

When I'd slid into that first designer original, the silk cool and slithery against my skin, I'd wondered if there could ever be a downside to being Rose. And I thought that I had just found it, in the way that Jasper the Gardener had instantly decided that because of my money and my snobbery, I wasn't worth even a second glance backwards. from

I tilted my chin up and set back towards the house. Suddenly, I wasn't quite as eager as I'd been earlier to see the boat house or the dock. Glancing down at my watch, I noted that it was nearly time for the fireworks to begin. I decided I was ready for coffee and a pastry, but more importantly, I was ready to watch Esme Platt and Renee Swan face off over the breakfast table.

* * *

Esme was pouring me a cup of coffee, fragrant steam curling in seductive wisps as the brown liquid streamed into the white Limoges cup, when Carlisle walked into the informal breakfast nook that we'd eaten in the morning before. Instead of stopping when my cup was full, she kept pouring, her eyes glued to the man in front of her.

"Esme!" I exclaimed, as coffee slopped over the sides of the cup and dripped onto the white table. She jerked the pot upwards, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

"Oh, Alice, I apologize. Let me just ask Bridget in here to clean this mess up," she apologized, setting the pot into its holder. Carlisle just stood there, an amused expression on his face, as Esme fluttered into the kitchen. Coffee disaster averted, I let myself take in the vastly different way that Edward's manager looked this morning. I'd assumed that Esme had ordered clothing for Carlisle as well as Rosalie and I, but I'd been far too absorbed in my new acquisitions to notice if he'd looked different at dinner.

A few hours of sleep and a bracing walk in the cool morning air had cleared my head enough—nevermind the run-in with Jasper the Gardener—that I realized there was something going on between the still very attractive Carlisle and the Ice Queen.

The first piece of evidence? The clothes she'd selected for him. I knew enough about women and fashion to know that we liked to re-envision the men in our lives. Esme had clearly done so with Carlisle, because he was now dressed in a beautiful, impeccably cut light gray suit, likely a testament to thousands of hours of expertise. I knew only a few artists—and they were definitely artists—who were able to cut a suit with that level of perfection. Even though it hadn't been tailored to his exact measurements, it still fit beautifully. He wore it with a simple white shirt, open at the collar, and he looked, despite his age, like a woman's wet dream come to life. He'd looked good enough in his ratty rock concert t-shirts and worn jeans, but this was an entirely different level of hot.

"Carlisle, can Bridget fetch you anything?" Esme returned, looking marginally less flustered—but still flustered enough that I had a pretty good idea of how completely her composure was blown to tiny bits. And I couldn't really blame her; Carlisle's appearance was something akin to a nuclear explosion.

I sipped my coffee and couldn't help but smirk as she used the maid to deflect her bizarre behavior.

"Just coffee is fine," Carlisle said casually, as if he had no idea how his appearance had dismantled Esme.

"I'll have toast. An English muffin, if you have it," Rose said as she strolled into the nook, looking beautifully disheveled. She clearly had just woken up, her blond hair falling in messy waves from her face. "Wow," she said as she glanced up at Carlisle, saying the one thing that we were all thinking but hadn't spoken out loud, "you look _great_. Good choices, Esme."

Esme flinched, as if she'd been electrocuted. "Thank you, Rosalie," she said in a frozen voice, clearly indicating that she didn't want to talk about Carlisle's appearance. "And of course there's English muffins."

"When's Renee expected?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence as Rose buttered her English muffin and Carlisle steadily regarded a flustered Esme over his coffee cup.

"Any minute now," Carlisle answered, sliding down one sleeve of that gorgeous gray fabric to glance at the watch at his wrist. I recognized it as a Cartier Tank. I wondered if that too had been a gift from Esme, or if he'd owned it before coming to this magical house of wonders.

"Excellent." Esme's voice was tight, as if she could contain anything she couldn't control. Personally, I thought she sounded wound so tight she might explode all over the breakfast table.

Bridget appeared again, and leaned down near Esme. Her eyes snapped up towards Carlisle, who hadn't once stopped his steady perusal of her expression. "Renee's here," she said to the table at large, but I could tell from the way her gaze stayed on Carlisle that the announcement had been primarily for his benefit. "I'll ask her to join us for breakfast. No doubt she didn't eat on the plane."

"Or at all," I said as sweetly as I could manage. I hadn't been lying when I said that Renee was one of my least favorite people in the entire universe, but that she _did _deserve to be here, to help retrieve her daughter. As far as I was concerned, that was pretty much _all _she deserved in regards to Bella. Renee acted as if Bella had a disease she couldn't bear not to cure, and considering how poised, confident and talented her daughter was, this seemed like a particularly heinous crime.

"She's a model, of course she doesn't eat," Rosalie remarked through a mouthful of English muffin.

"Ex-model," I clarified. "She's like fifty now. Parts of her are anyway."

"Girls," Esme said warningly as she got up from the table with Carlisle following after her, but I saw the corner of her lips turn up in the barest hint of a smirk before she turned to walk out the door.

"I've never met her; is she really all that bad?" Rosalie asked, starting on her second English muffin.

I glanced down at my fruit cup and black coffee. "She's positively awful. And how do you eat all that and look the way you do?"

"Good genes. Great metabolism. And swimming laps. Really, Alice, there's nothing you need to worry about. You're beautiful and so petite."

"Yeah, because I don't eat English muffins."

"Don't be ridiculous," Rosalie said, piling a steaming heap of scrambled eggs on my plate despite my protests. "The protein is good for you."

I surrendered, shoveling a forkful of golden fluffy egg into my mouth, and nearly choked as Renee sailed into the room—and sailed was definitely the right term.

She was wearing bright blue dress, which I recognized instantly as one that I'd lusted after on the Bergdorf's website, and I could tell from the way that Rose's eyes narrowed in on the kimono tie, that she agreed that it was about twenty years too young for the still-statuesque ex-model.

"Alice," Renee gushed, floating over to where I sat the table. "Can you believe it? Our poor, _misguided _Bella, lured down the dark path by enemies posing as friends."

"Renee," I said flatly, choosing to ignore the gibberish spouting out of her puffy, collagen-filled lips. "Good to see you too." I was a terrible liar, and knew it, and didn't even care that the words came out my mouth were flat and meaningless. I _wasn't _glad to see her, just as she wasn't glad to see me either. Renee and I had an uneasy truce full of fake smiles, double meanings and insincere compliments, but I had a strong feeling that over the next few weeks, even the façade was going to come crumbling to the ground.

"Hello. I'm Rosalie Hale," Rose said, her gaze sliding up the dress for the second time, before settling on Renee's face. "You must be Renee Swan."

"So lovely to meet you," Renee trilled, her face lighting up with delight at meeting such a genuine celebrity. "When Carlisle called and said that Bella had been abducted, I had no idea she had fallen in with such famous people." I found it vaguely disgusting that Renee was nearly slobbering all over Rose in her eagerness to impress her. If there was one thing that Renee admired more than beauty, it was money. So, basically, Rosalie Hale was her version of the Holy Grail. If Renee could have designed a daughter the way that you did a stuffed animal at those inane shops in suburban malls, it would have looked, acted, and spoken just like Rosalie.

"Renee," Esme said, stepping into the room, an even more insincere smile plastered on her features, "what can I get you for breakfast? A fruit cup, like Alice's? Some coffee?"

"I'm perfectly fine. I ate on the plane, actually," Renee said with an equally saccharine smile as she gracefully dropped into the seat next to Rosalie. "I'm not hungry."

"Carlisle? Can Bridget get you anything?"

"I'm fine with coffee and toast," he said, sitting down at the only available seat, which was unfortunately wedged between Renee and Esme. "I've never been much of a breakfast person."

"Me either," Renee gushed, leaning over and placing a single hand on his arm. "I just find that I'm never hungry in the mornings."

"Or anytime," I mumbled underneath my breath, as I speared a pineapple wedge in my bowl of fruit.

"Is that the new Diane Von Furstenberg kimono dress?" Rosalie asked, deciding that it was probably better she change the subject before any of us decided to actually say what we were thinking.

"It is, in fact." Renee practically blossomed in front of us, clearly thrilled that Rosalie Hale was interested in discussing what _she _was wearing. I didn't even try to hide my rolling eyes, and to my astonishment, neither did Esme.

"Please, Renee. I thought you came here to discuss your daughter. Not Spring Fashion Week," Esme snapped.

Renee's eyes grew wide. "Have you heard from her?"

"She's kidnapped so that would be a. . ._no_," I deadpanned.

"We've called in a specialist, who is going to oversee the location and extraction of Edward and Bella from the group that is holding them," Carlisle cut in.

Renee shifted slightly in her seat, so that Carlisle had her full attention—or the handful of brain cells she had left. "And who would that be? The FBI? The CIA?"

"Marc Jacobs? Donatella Versace?" Rose added snidely.

I elbowed her under the table and I saw her bite down on her lip hard to keep from busting out laughing. "Girls," Esme said firmly, "this is serious business."

Rearranging her features into abject contrition, Rosalie nodded solemnly. "Of course it is. I understand completely. Who's this specialist?"

"His name is Marcus. He was in Black Ops with Army Special Forces. After retiring from the Armed Forces, he turned to the private sector," Carlisle continued, clearly unaware that Renee was nearly slobbering all over him. For an older man, he was still incredibly attractive, and the suit he was wearing definitely made the most of what he had. Renee wouldn't be Renee if she didn't notice and take action. Sometimes I didn't understand how my best friend in the entire world could have been birthed by such a superficial, social-climbing ho bag bitch.

"A gunslinger for hire. Very smart," Renee cooed. I made internal gagging noises. "You have everything under such admirable. . .control. Now, can I ask, you were so ambiguous on the phone, who exactly _has _my daughter?" I knew the from the way that Esme's gaze narrowed at Renee that I wasn't alone in seeing the calculation in her eyes. While I still stood by my insistence that Renee be here because she was Bella's mother, I knew, as did everyone else, that her daughter's safety was secondary to Renee. She was really here because this was Esme Platt's house.

"That's none of your concern," Esme said brusquely. "Besides, you wouldn't know the group. Suffice it to say, they're dangerous. Very much so."

"Goodness, Esme, there's no need to be so stiff. We're friends. I remember so fondly that garden party you threw three years ago. We should hold another while I'm here, a joint gathering perhaps? Carlisle," she leaned even closer to him, apparently deciding that she needed to smother the poor man in her exposed cleavage, "surely you have some music friends that could use a day or two away from their _rough _lives in New York? And you too, Rosalie. It would be nice to have a little get together. . ."

Renee didn't get any further than that.

We sat for a second, all of us struck slightly dumb by the audacity of the woman in our midst. Even though Carlisle said nothing, I was sure that the whole table could feel him bristle at Renee's suggestion. Esme stood abruptly and turned to Renee, her face looking as if it had just been carved from marble. "Are you sure I can't get you anything, Renee? A bowl of air perhaps?"

It took Renee about half a moment longer than anyone else to realize that she'd just been insulted. Personally, I thought, while the comment was fairly amusing, Esme must be losing it because that was a hell of a lot less subtle than I was sure she was capable of.

"Excuse me?" Renee gaped. "I don't believe I heard you correctly."

"No, you heard me perfectly," Esme said, her voice so cold that it sounded like it had just come out of a deep freeze. "And while you are welcome here because of your daughter's unfortunate circumstances, I want to be clear: we are not friends or even passing acquaintances. There won't be convenient name-dropping in interviews, or exclusive gossip about Esme Platt's summer residence _or _her son and your daughter's 'relationship' with him. And there definitely will _not_ be any invitations for you. This changes _nothing_."

"I thought we'd put that silly misunderstanding behind us," Renee said, her melting voice suddenly growing a hard edge.

"The misunderstanding?" Esme lifted an eyebrow, and I was astounded that despite her ice cold glare, Renee didn't burst into spontaneous flames. "Are you referring to your banishment from all good society for being a gold-digging whore?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" None of us missed the challenge in Renee's voice, and I settled back in my chair, admittedly enjoying watching these two formidable opponents try to destroy each other. Personally, while I'd seen my share of Renee manipulation, my money was definitely on Esme here. After all, the Ice Queen never lost.

"Yes, you are. Barely. It's only my good will that allows you to stay, Bella or no Bella, and my mood is rather. . .changeable right now. This is your first and last warning: the press hears even a _word _of this, and I'll make sure that you never see another invitation as long as you live. California. New York. Or anywhere else that matters."

"You can't do that," Renee spluttered. "Bella is _my _daughter. If I want to talk to anyone about her, I can and I will."

"And this is my house. Thus, my rules. If you don't like it, leave," Esme said coldly. If I hadn't seen her break down yesterday, I wouldn't have known she was capable of it. Today, her armor was thick and hard, as impenetrable as ice. She turned to Carlisle, her manner warming just barely. "We have some calls to make and some plans to formulate. Will you meet me in the office?"

"What about me?" Renee asked plaintively as Carlisle rose and Esme turned to leave the room.

Esme glanced over her shoulder. "Feel free to talk to Rosalie and Alice about Diane Von Furstenberg's Spring collection. Or perhaps the new Prada bags. Fashion should be a topic you're well qualified to discuss, unlike your daughter's rescue."

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table after Esme and Carlisle's departure. I picked at my fruit, Rosalie chewed her English muffin with careless abandon, and Renee stared out the window, absently tapping her manicured fingernails on the tabletop. But when I looked up from a strawberry, I found Bella's mother staring at _me, _intently.

"You look different," she said to me, her eyes examining the simple white cashmere cardigan, the pink Milly dress, and the chic wedge sandals. "You look beautiful, in fact," she begrudged finally. "I wonder, have you ever considered modeling?"

Bella had joked for years that one day, Renee would actually _look _at me, instead of right through me, and realize that I was the kind of daughter she'd always wanted. Personally, I thought Renee's taste ran more towards tall blonds, like herself and Rosalie, but I was undoubtedly slender, with interesting features. Those two ingredients, I knew from my experience in fashion, would be enough for her to wonder—even if it was only a casual question.

I had definitely not expected today to be _that _day, though, and I didn't know what to say to her. Of course, with my love of fashion, I'd considered it, but nowhere seriously enough to know how to answer.

Rosalie, being Rosalie, had no such qualms. "Alice isn't interested in modeling," she said with a sunny, innocent, totally unaware smile. "She wants to design. Didn't you know about her clothes business?"

That got Renee's attention faster than if someone yelled "Free Botox!" on 5th Avenue in New York.

"No, I didn't, and you _know_ how much I love fashion. Why didn't you or Bella tell me all about it?"

_Because_, I thought with increasing desperation, _it wasn't exactly _legal.

"Uh," I stalled. "Bella didn't?"

Rosalie, of course, stormed right in, obviously thinking that my reticence had nothing to do with the questionable legality of such a business, but instead with fear that once she discovered what we'd used her clothes for, Renee would order us beheaded or disemboweled or something equally horrific.

"I'm sure they _wanted _to tell you," Rose gushed, "but they were too afraid you'd be angry when you found out."

This got Renee's attention even quicker. She was now staring at me as if I were some sort of strange, mythical creature that she'd never dreamed existed. "Alice, my dear, please tell me what is going on."

Fatalistically, I decided there was no point in continuing the charade. Lying wasn't going to help me now. "Those clothes that you send Bella? We've been using them as patterns to copy from, and then selling the copies."

I honestly had no idea how Renee was going to react; Bella and I had never discussed the possibility of Renee finding out about the business, probably because that would require Renee to be interested in what we were _actually _doing versus what she _wanted _us to do. And, naturally, this had never happened before.

I was unfortunately finding out that there was a first time for everything.

Renee didn't respond right away. In fact, I was rather astonished to see the surprise written on her face—I'd thought that all Dr. Phil's procedures had totally eradicated her ability to convey emotion via her expression, but clearly I was wrong. "Goodness," she finally said weakly. "You _and _Bella were doing this? So the clothes I sent for her, they weren't being kept in a box somewhere?"

I shook my head.

"Truthfully, I'm glad," Renee finally admittedly. "I hated the thought of such beautiful things going to waste."

I had too. Yet another astonishing fact: Renee Swan and I actually had something in common besides a general lust for designer clothing.

"They didn't," I told her. "That was initially why I started copying them—they weren't my size and some of them couldn't be altered to fit, so I made my first copies. And then my friends saw them, and asked if they could have a copy too."

"Amazing," Renee murmured, and it looked as if she actually meant it. "All this time, while Bella could care less about what she wears, you _do_."

"The copies are amazing," Rosalie added. "I couldn't tell the difference until I was right up close."

"Buttons and hardware are hard to match sometimes, because designers usually custom order their own notions," I explained.

"Have you ever thought about designing your own line?" Rose asked, if it was all so easy and effortless. Which for her, if she'd ever had the inclination, it probably was. I realized then that what I envied in Rose was her ability to do whatever she wanted—the freedom and the independence of having enough income that you didn't have to scrape together rent money each month and make decisions between the new Alice + Olivia dress and eating. She could keep the red carpets and the _People _Best-Dressed Lists and the way men reacted to her name. I just wanted the ability to finally do what I'd been born to do.

"Yes, Alice, you really should," Renee added. "If these copies are really as cunning and clever as Rosalie says they are."

I shrugged. "Making clothes is expensive. We had just begun to make a little extra to put away each month, but not enough for me to design my own clothes, which was the eventual goal."

"And then Bella demanded I stop contacting her," Renee finished.

"Yes." I didn't want to agree, but Bella's sudden ability to stand up to her mother had definitely put a crimp in my plans.

"I've got plenty of money," Rose said with an almost embarrassed undertone to her voice—as if having money was something to be ashamed of. "I could help you out."

I had seen this coming from a mile away, and though Rosalie's eyes were guileless, I had a feeling that she had manufactured this entire conversation as a way to suggest the concept of her funding me.

"No. Absolutely not." It killed me to say no, but I knew that I had to do this on my own; I didn't want to take any shortcuts or any handouts. I would do it without any help, someday—of course, who knew when it would ever happen, at the rate I was going.

"Oh, please let me," Rosalie begged. "I'd love to help, and my parents are always telling me I need to get more involved in business. To do _something _besides shop and go to parties."

And probably follow Edward around like a helpless groupie, I added in my head, before mentally chastising myself. Rose was becoming a friend. It was horrible of me to even think those things about her, even though they were undoubtedly true. Besides, she had insisted to me dozens of times that she and Edward were totally over, and that she was turning over a new leaf with Emmett.

It would be so easy to just say yes. To agree Rose's impassioned plea. I toyed with the idea briefly before shaking my head no again. "I'm sorry, I just can't. This is something I need to do with my own resources because I don't want anything or anyone influencing the creative process."

"Just promise me you'll consider it," Rose asked again. "That's all I ask, right now."

It had been hard enough to say no twice; to do it a third time would probably kill me, especially when all I could see was an endless future of me fetching coffee for a minor fashionista or selling ugly separates at The Gap. "Fine. I suppose I could consider it," I conceded. "But no promises."

"That's all I ask," Rosalie said buoyantly. "Just for you to consider it."

* * *

I'd honestly believed that I wouldn't have to hear about it again, that Rosalie had understood that my agreement had only been a nicer way for me to turn her down. But apparently, we weren't on that same page, because that afternoon, while laying out by the pool, our skin baking in the unnatural May heat, Rose brought it up again.

"You know why I offered, right?" she asked, not moving, her eyes shielded by a pair of Gucci aviators. "It's not because I'm rich and you're poor."

"Gee, thanks for the penetrating insight," I answered a trifle sarcastically.

"I'm serious," she said, rolling over and pushing her sunglasses up on her head. "It really isn't about that."

"Oh? What's it about then?" I asked, amused and still not taking her seriously. I picked up a glass of lemonade from the table next to my chaise lounge, the condensation making the glass slippery in my hand. Cautiously I sipped from the straw before setting it down, waiting for Rose to make up some bullshit story about how helping me would really help _her_.

Rose lay back down, her sunglasses sliding back over her eyes, before she answered. I wasn't the world's most observant person when it came to body language—clothes, on the other hand, were a totally different story—but I wondered if she had done that on purpose so she wouldn't have to look me in the eyes while she told me what she'd meant.

"You know about Edward and I, so I don't need to tell you that it was even more fucked up than anyone knew. I don't even think I can explain and have you understand how much I hated what I'd become. A drifter; a helpless, bitchy, angry girl who thought she was in love with a man who treated her like utter shit. And I really believed that was all I was worth." Her voice was bitter, as if the very words she spoke had an unbearably nasty taste.

"You're Rosalie Hale. Beautiful and rich and famous. Why would you think you deserved that kind of treatment from _anyone_?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It was just. . .habit. I wanted him, for god knows what reason—he _is _incredibly charming, you know—and so at first, I just kind of turned a blind eye to the other women, to the booze, to the nasty comments he'd make. And once it started, it was just a slippery slope, a cycle that I couldn't end."

"But you did end it," I said softly. "You told me you broke it off with him." If I hadn't been worried about Bella before this, I would definitely be worried now. How on earth would she manage being cooped up and kept a prisoner with such a jerk? Bella was fiercely strong-willed, I reassured myself, she would manage and make the best of it. At least that was what I hoped she'd do.

Rosalie said nothing for a long while, the luxurious silence stretching out between us. I could hear the faintest hint of the ocean, but otherwise, Esme lived far enough away from anyone that the only sound you could hear were her staff and any other residents of the house. I remembered Jasper the Gardener and pushed his lean golden figure from my mind. He'd dismissed me, and there wasn't any reason to think about him or wish that I hadn't let him believe that I was a Society Princess like Rosalie. Though, I reconsidered, it made me irrationally upset that he would believe the worst of her, especially when I'd discovered what a sweet, kind, _generous _soul she had underneath the beauty and the charm.

"But I didn't do it for me. I left Edward for Emmett, because he loved me so much and he wanted me to. I wanted to be with someone who was kind to me. So I told Edward we were finished, and I believed it. I _do _believe it. But the fact remains," she sighed, "that I didn't do it for myself. My therapist, Gianna has been telling me that I need to do something for me, something to give me a purpose."

"So you're going to adopt mine?" I asked.

"I'd give you complete creative control," she persisted, "but I really think that I'd be good at the business side. The marketing, publicity, that sort of thing."

To Rosalie's credit, I could see it just the way she described it. Me, designing the collection, Rose promoting it with her worldwide Rolodex of celebrity friends and media contacts. But still, the vision had a pink tinge of unreality to it, as if I was viewing the entire thing through a rose-colored dream. And life, I had learned long ago, was more reality than fantasy.

"You said before that you'd consider it, but we both know you didn't mean that," Rose continued. "All I want is your serious promise that you will. Because I think we could be a very, very good team."

I was beginning to wonder, I realized as I stared out across the serene blue water of the pool, the sun leaving little ripples of heat on the terracotta tiles, if Rose wasn't right. It wasn't a terrible idea, and I decided that it would be stupid of me not to do as she asked.

"Okay," I told her. "I'll consider it."

"Really?"

I turned to look at her. "No, Rose. I'm going to turn you and your millions of dollars down, and stay in obscurity, likely selling ugly clothes at American Eagle, for the rest of my life."

Rose laughed. "You know, I knew when you showed up in an almost flawless copy of a Nanette Lapore tunic dress that we'd get along great. I wasn't wrong."

"Almost flawless? You lie. You counted it thread by thread, trying to figure out if it was authentic or not."

She laughed again, the sound drifting across the pool. "Fine. You win. It took me hours to decide if it was a copy."

"I thought so," I said smugly. "And because you admitted to not being sure, I was right about you. I'll do more than consider it. You're on."

Rose sat up so fast, her sunglasses clattered to the terracotta patio. "Really?" she exclaimed. "That was all the time you needed to consider it?"

"I'm not saying 100% yes right now, because I don't feel right devoting all my time to a pet project when my best friend is missing, but I'm serious when I say I'm very, very interested in seeing if this could work."

"You're on, Brandon," Rose said with a huge smile that just lit up her face, the same way it did when she spoke of Emmett. "I can't wait to make you famous."

"I can't wait until you do either," I said, leaning back on the chaise lounge, feeling as if something in my life was finally going right. I settled my sunglasses back on, deciding the pink tones they washed the landscape in were surprisingly appropriate to my mood. After all, my fantasy was about to become a reality.

* * *

**AN: I sort of feel like I should start apologizing for all the sideplots and the complexity that this story has developed. I honestly had no idea that it was going to become so large, plot-wise. I really, really was going to leave Jasper out of it, but he demanded that he be included. And yes, you (and Alice) will be seeing more of him.**

**Is he who Alice thinks he is? Or is he someone else? Let's hear some theories :)**


	17. Global Warming

**AN: Thank you for everyone's awesome support. This was a tough chapter to write, even though I'll freely admit that Esme is probably one of my favorite characters in this. Sometimes it's hard to stay in her head for so long; it's just painful to listen to her and all the regrets she carries. Lyrics at the beginning are from "The Tower" by Vienna Teng, which is a song that I believe perfectly exemplifies Esme's internal conflict-please listen to it and the other songs I've updated on the playlist.**

**Thank you to JosieSwan, who is an amazing beta, and Izzzzyy, the bestest best cheerleader, who pre-reads for me and strokes my ego so good.**

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_She carries the act so convincingly__,__ the fact is sometimes she believes it:_

_That she can be happy with the way things are; happy with the things she's done_

**Esme**

I couldn't help it; I exploded the moment Carlisle and I were in my office with the door closed. Not that I cared if anyone heard; it wasn't exactly a secret that I disliked Renee Swan intensely and the last half an hour had only convinced me further that she was absolutely the last person on earth that I wanted to associate closely with.

Unfortunately I didn't seem to have much choice in the matter because she was here for the long run—or at least until Carlisle and I could figure out a way to rescue Edward and Bella.

"I hate that she doesn't even _care _about her daughter," I ranted, as I paced in front of my desk. "What kind of mother doesn't care about her child?"

I was all too aware that at one point, Carlisle himself had believed this crime of me, but now he only gazed at me with sympathy and understanding. "I don't think she necessarily doesn't _care,_" he tried to respond, but I cut him off before he could offer even a single excuse for her behavior.

"There's _no _excuse for caring more about your social climbing agenda than your own daughter," I hissed.

"She cares. She just hides it. Like someone else I know," Carlisle said, sending me a pointed look from his blue eyes. "You and Renee have more in common than you realize."

I stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "That is absolutely not true. I am _nothing _like her."

Carlisle simply shrugged. "Perhaps you are; perhaps you aren't. In any case, I don't think that just because she wants to get to know your friends she doesn't care about her daughter. If she didn't care, she wouldn't be here."

"That's patently false," I retorted.

"Regardless," Carlisle continued, still patient, always understanding, "she's not the devil you make her out to be."

I hated that Carlisle was defending her, but I hated my own reaction to Renee's apparent disinterest in her daughter's wellbeing even more. Though it might not have seemed like it, I would do anything for my son—and I _had _done everything for him. After Eoghan's death, I could have stayed in Ireland or traveled anywhere else in the world, but I had come back home, understanding that Edward would need the kind of protection that only my parents' resources could offer him. Instead of appreciating and understanding the difficulty of the position I'd assumed, Edward had grown up resenting me and hating the life I'd chosen for us.

But despite all the virulence and the anger he'd spewed my direction, I still loved him and would do anything to see him safely back home.

"Fine," I said, sitting in the chair behind the desk like a queen assuming her throne. "In the end, I suppose it doesn't even matter if she cares or not. Edward and Bella's safety is what matters."

"Are you ready to talk to Marcus?"

I didn't want to tell Carlisle, but while I was ready to try anything he had up his sleeve, I was undeniably hesitant about Marcus. The very nature of his job and the necessary action he might be forced to take unsettled me. I was also sick to my stomach at the idea of what he might find wherever Edward and Bella were.

"First, before we call him, I want to discuss Emmett."

"Rosalie talked to you," Carlisle said matter-of-factly, and I wondered if deep down, he blamed himself for the betrayal of Edward's bodyguard. He'd been the one to select and hire Emmett, and had done the background check himself. A bodyguard was a point that I wouldn't be swayed on, and while I hadn't been present in the interview, Carlisle had assured me that Edward would be safe with the man he'd selected. Now, those reassurances must haunt him at night, I thought, glancing over at Edward's manager.

"She didn't have to. I know why she's here. It's not for Edward and I can't say I blame her. He never treated her right, never _once _treated a woman right once he reached the age of 16, and it isn't for lack of trying on my part. But no, Rose didn't have to come to me. I like Emmett; I always have. You've told me yourself, dozens of times, how much Emmett has gone above and beyond the call of duty. He wouldn't do that unless he cares about Edward."

"You have a lot of blind faith." Carlisle's voice was wry now, and I knew then I'd been right; he _did _blame himself for trusting Emmett.

I shrugged. "I'm a fairly good judge of character, and I think based on John Tyler's research, it's safe to say he was caught in a bad situation with very few options open to him."

"That's no excuse." I almost couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd been so certain that convincing Carlisle that Emmett wasn't to be harmed or blamed was going to be fairly easy, but apparently that wasn't the case.

"I've made my decision," I told him firmly, "Emmett is not to blame here. I won't let him take the fall for this."

"You're blinded by some stupid, _romantic _story that Rose told you about how much she loves Emmett," Carlisle accused, and I was shocked to hear such a bitter, angry edge to his voice.

"I'm not, and she didn't tell me _any _story. I make my own decisions."

Carlisle tensed, as if he knew that I would fight him on this as long as it took and he was preparing himself for the inevitable argument, but then, he suddenly relaxed. "Okay," he told me.

"That's it? Just. . .'okay'?"

Carlisle shrugged. "It's your decision, Esme. He's your son." _He's not mine_—I could nearly hear the unspoken words of Carlisle's.

He _is_ yours, I wanted to argue with him, he's as much—if not more—your son than mine. He's spent ten years rejecting me, and ten years embracing everything you stood for, everything you _are_.

But I stayed silent, the old resentment bubbling up inside of me, because I _was _jealous of how much more Edward had let Carlisle into his life. How much more Edward listened to the other man. Of how much Edward _let _Carlisle care about him.

"Well that's settled," he said. "Should we call Marcus?"

"Yes. There's no time to lose," I said briskly, swallowing all the fear and the anger and the bitterness. Those emotions contributed nothing to saving my son, and right now, that was all I cared about.

I waited as Carlisle reached over the desk and hit the speakerphone button on the phone, dialing the number quickly. Marcus picked up after one ring.

"Marcus here." His voice was hard and edgy and intense—dark, like he had seen dark places and had done dark deeds. The uneasiness in my stomach grew.

"Marcus, hello. This is Carlisle Masen, and I'm here with Esme Platt."

"Marcus, I'm really looking forward to hearing your plans to save my son and his companion," I said politely.

"Yes," he barked. "I do have plans."

I glanced up uneasily at Carlisle, and his blue eyes were reassuring. Calming. I took a deep breath and gathered my courage and all the self-possession I had. "Could I ask what those plans are?" I inquired firmly, meeting his steel with some of my own. If he honestly thought that I couldn't go toe to toe with him, after some of the people I'd met in my many years of society parties and functions, then he was delusional.

"So far, I know Emmett took them across the Canadian border. I have agents looking for any locations they might have stopped, along both the more-traveled highways and some of the out of the way routes. I'll let you know when we find anything."

"As for Emmett," I began.

"What about Emmett?" he interrupted. "He's the kidnapper, isn't he?"

"Emmett is under my protection," I said slowly, clearly. "He is not to be harmed whatsoever."

"Carlisle, are you aware of this?" Marcus said impatiently, as if he didn't waste a second more of his time talking to me. As if Carlisle was really in charge. Carlisle, I had to admit, had his uses, but the idea that _he _was in charge of my son's rescue was a joke.

"Excuse me," I said coldly. "_I _was discussing Emmett with you. Now, I know he is technically the man who took Edward, but there's been a misunderstanding . . ."

"Lady," Marcus interrupted again, clearly barely restraining his anger, "I'm not sure who you are, but you're grating on my last nerve. I'm sure you're worried about your son and all, but your interference isn't going to help rescue him."

"_My interference?"_ I couldn't help but raise my voice and drop it down a few hundred degrees. The man needed to know who he was messing with right _now_. I glanced up to see that even Carlisle was a bit taken aback by Marcus' irreverent attitude. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Yeah, you're Esme Platt. So what?"

"Google me," I ground out, "and you'll understand. I'm not being egotistical when I say that I'm not just a lady who lunches. I could _end _you if I chose to, understand? So when I say Emmett McCarty is under _my _protection, that's not just me blowing air into your empty brain."

"Under your protection, huh? Seems your power didn't do a whole hell of a lot to keep your son safe," he jeered, and I expected everything inside me to go deathly cold—approximately the temperature of a deep freeze—but instead, I felt hot, molten lava bubbling up inside me, melting my self-control and my composure.

He was right, I realized, as the temper boiled away inside me. I had come home, had frozen myself up inside to be the kind of woman who could control the world and therefore protect her son, but instead, I had only sacrificed myself and pushed Edward away. Nothing I had done, I thought bleakly, had turned out like I had thought it would.

I barely heard and couldn't comprehend Carlisle's words as he took over the conversation and I stared numbly out the window.

The last twenty plus years—all those years of swallowing every feeling, every ounce of emotion, of locking the real Esme away behind a wall of ice, had been for nothing. I had failed at the one thing that I had set out to do.

As Carlisle finished up the phone call, I sat back and contemplated the hideous ruins of my life as Esme Platt and wondered, after the catastrophe, what was even left.

Finally, Carlisle clicked the phone off and sat back in his chair, looking at me quizzically. After a moment of silence, he spoke up. "I'm honestly surprised you didn't go for his jugular there."

"Instead I just sat there," I finished for him. "But he was right. Nothing I've done in the last twenty years ended up keeping Edward safe. Being Esme Platt has been a useless exercise."

"Now, that's not exactly true. Yes, it didn't prevent him from being taken—though I'd say that the fault for that rests squarely on his own shoulders—but being Esme Platt is going to go a hell of a long way towards getting him back."

I looked at him in utter surprise. I had never considered that possibility before, or thought of what my position meant we could do to get him back home safe. Just like my mother and her mother before her, I'd simply taken being a Platt for granted. But to just about any other mother, Edward would be doomed.

"You're right," I whispered, and for the second time in two days, _really _saw Carlisle, as he sat there, understanding and sympathy brimming in those gorgeous blue eyes.

He glanced down at his watch. "I have some calls to make, I'll see you at dinner?"

I nodded mechanically, my head swirling in thoughts of Edward and my mother and even more forbidden ones of Eoghan as he'd grinned at me that morning in Dublin, and Carlisle in his beautiful suit, with his kind eyes and even kinder smile. "I'll see you tonight."

He stood, and almost turned to go, but then hesitated and turned back to me, self-reproach on his face. "You were right about Emmett. I don't know what I was thinking," he said self-consciously.

"You were thinking that he took something that was valuable and important to you. You'd have to be a monster to not want to see him punished. But Edward and Bella aren't the only victims here."

"And thank you for making me see that," he said to me, stopping in front of my chair. "I'll see you at dinner." And casually, as if he wasn't throwing another bomb into the midst of my rubble, he leaned down and brushed his lips across my cheek. We'd air kissed before, at parties, when I was expected to be Esme Platt, Ice Queen and Hostess, but this was different—intimate and deliberate. He pulled back and his blue eyes seemed to swallow the rest of the world.

"Tonight, yes," I mumbled. "Dinner."

I spent the afternoon wandering around outside, soaking up the sunshine, wondering if Edward was locked inside and couldn't do the same. As I skirted around the rose garden by the pool, I heard Rosalie and Alice's laughter, and I realized it had been too long since there'd been young voices echoing in my house.

I returned to my master suite as dusk was falling, and glancing at the closet, I contemplated what I should do. The hours had helped rebuild some of my internal rubble, but I still felt adrift, as if the purpose which I'd dedicated my life to, had suddenly evaporated and I didn't know what to replace it with.

The obvious solution was to find who I had been before I'd transformed myself into Esme Platt. Who _had _been the girl who'd taken Eoghan's hand in the Dublin sun? Did she even still exist, somewhere deep down inside of me?

I walked towards the closet, and hesitatingly fingered the dark, neutral dresses that I typically wore for occasions such as this. They were more armor than clothes—designed to hide and to protect and to keep me frozen.

Glancing towards the full length mirror in the expansive closet, at my still slender figure and youthful skin, I realized the nails weren't in my coffin yet. Yes, I had wasted twenty years, but the nails weren't in my coffin just yet. There wasn't a reason to act like they were.

Carlisle had blown my carefully constructed world to bits this morning by appearing in his immaculately-tailored Gucci suit, and part of me, so long buried I almost didn't hear it, told me that I wanted him to notice me the same way I'd noticed him. Suddenly, I wanted him to see the _real_me, whoever that was.

The green eyes in the mirror regarded me evenly, calmly, and taking a deep breath, I decided that I'd been frozen for long enough. Maybe, before it was too late, it was time for me to figure out if I could thaw.

I pushed all my dark dresses to the side, searching for the one I'd purchased in a fit of folly a month before on a trip to New York. My personal shopper had looked at me incredulously as I'd plucked it from the rack, but once I'd tried it on, even her jaded expression had told me what I needed to know. The dress itself was a youthful light lilac, with draping and a narrow belt that hugged my curves in all the right places. It wasn't a sedate dress or a dress that you wore if you wanted to be ignored. I'd never pictured actually _wearing_ it, of course, but now I donned it almost recklessly, determined not to chicken out and slink back to the safe and the familiar.

I'd been hiding for so long, and as I finished dressing, leaving my hair in long, loose curls around my shoulders, I couldn't believe how good it felt to discover what was underneath.

If the mirror hadn't shown me the drastic change in my appearance, I could see it on Rose and Alice's faces as we met in the living room for a pre-dinner drink. "That dress is gorgeous," Rose said enviously. "I love the color. It reminds me of the lilacs that grow around my parents house on Martha's Vineyard."

"I couldn't have designed anything that would suit you better," Alice gushed. "You look beautiful."

I couldn't lie to myself; their praise was very sweet vindication. Maybe I wasn't as far gone as I'd thought I was.

"Oh Esme, you look positively stunning. So _young_ and chic," Renee trilled as she swept into the room as if she were walking the runways in Paris or Milan. And of course, since it was Renee, she made even the sweetest compliment seem bitter and false.

She leaned in, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and blond hair, and brushed an air kiss over each cheek. Her eyes, a brilliant sapphire blue, undiminished by age and unaugmented by her husband, shone in triumph as she stepped back to let me admire her own undoubtedly superior ensemble.

But as usual, Renee had based her entire strategy on a single erroneous assumption: that the blue eyes that I'd been dressing for were _hers_.

"Oh Carlisle, you're here," Rose said, and I glanced up, surprised that we'd all been so absorbed in our own splendor that we hadn't noticed that Carlisle had arrived. But he was still standing by the doorway, and I felt his eyes burn hotly into me as they swept over the lines of the body that the dress I wore did nothing to hide.

He straightened, and slid his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks as he ambled over to where we stood. "Renee, Alice. Rosalie," he greeted each of them in turn, and then he turned to me. "Esme," he breathed in, slightly unsteadily, and I felt like the commanding general at the end of World War III. I couldn't say for sure if he'd noticed me before tonight, but I knew that he couldn't help himself now.

I knew I'd struck a direct hit at Renee, when she exclaimed again, even louder this time. "Carlisle, you must sit beside me at dinner. I don't get to New York as often as I should, and you need to fill me in all the exciting music news tonight."

Carlisle might be in a conversation with Renee, but as I fetched glasses and poured drinks, he turned his head towards me, his gaze brushing me for a mere split second, but it left me feeling scorched and marked.

"I'm sorry," I heard him say to her, "but I'm afraid I can't interfere with our hostess' seating arrangements. It wouldn't be. . .polite."

For an aging ex-rockstar, I thought he had surprisingly good manners. Some mother, somewhere, must have taught him well, I thought as I handed the girls their glasses.

"Do you think she could be any more obvious?" I heard Rose murmur to Alice as I turned to speak to Bridget, who'd no doubt come to tell me that dinner was served. I just hoped that she'd been referring to Renee and not to me. I'd made my decision to conquer Carlisle, but that didn't mean it had to be a public war. I wasn't sure yet what I wanted from yet, but I knew that whatever I ended up taking or giving, it was going to be a completely private matter, kept secret between the two of us. I wouldn't be hanging off of him, as Renee was doing.

I had to give him marks, though, for keeping his temper, when she stole nearly every second of his attention during the mercifully short dinner.

She continually brought up New York, as if it were the site of the Holy Grail, even though we all knew perfectly well that Carlisle and Athair were based out of Boston. Of course, Renee wasn't precisely notorious for her reasoning skills.

"So tell me," she'd said conspiratorially over the main course, which I didn't know you could do at the decibel level of a wounded elephant, "do you know Jay-Z? Alicia Keys? Beyonce, perhaps? I heard that Kanye West even goes to the White Party in the Hamptons every summer."

Carlisle had poise, and not once did he rolls his eyes or smirk at Renee's transparent social-climbing stupidity. "Jay-Z and I don't exactly run in the same circles, no."

"But you're both musicians," she said, clearly confused, a pucker appearing between her flawlessly plucked eyebrows.

Carlisle, sitting at the foot of the table, looked up at me in desperation. I just smiled over my wine glass and let him field this one on his own. Besides, if I started in on Renee, everyone's mild amusement would turn to something else entirely.

"Jay-Z and Kanye and Beyonce and I aren't exactly in the same genre of music," Carlisle tried to explain. Renee followed his mouth moving raptly, as if it carried the secret of the universe, I thought with annoyance. Did she have to be so embarrassingly obvious? As if a man of discerning taste and class would _ever _stoop to that level. After all, _she_ had married a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Talk about obvious.

Renee waved a hand airily, as if this had already occurred to her—which I was fairly sure it hadn't—and it was of absolutely zero importance. "But surely, you musicians all travel in the same circles, go to the same parties?"

I tried to imagine my son and Carlisle at a party for Kanye West or Beyonce and failed. And despite my frigid reputation, I had a extremely vivid imagination.

Rose apparently decided that we'd all let Carlisle hang out to dry long enough, because she chose that moment to enter into the conversation. "I've been to a few of Edward's parties," she said wryly, "and it's not really Jay-Z's scene."

"Oh, but I wasn't referring to _Edward's _parties, though no doubt he's had some very well-attended events. I was talking about _Carlisle's_ parties." Renee gave Rose a sly look, but Rosalie, clearly deciding she was done playing nice, simply rolled her eyes.

I saw Carlisle's jaw tighten with annoyance and I couldn't help but smile into my wine glass. He caught my eye and I knew he was beseeching me to rescue him, but I decided that I wasn't quite ready yet. Before I did, I wanted to see how deep a hole Renee was going to dig for herself.

"Carlisle, I didn't realize you were still so active in the social scene," Alice observed and I thought I heard Rose choke on a piece of her chicken.

"I'm not," he replied grimly, sawing away at his own chicken as if it were made of stone and wasn't fork-tender. "I haven't been for some time. I manage Edward now. My own career has, not so regrettably, come to an end."

"Oh, that is _so _unfortunate," Renee trilled apologetically, her hands fluttering like tiny, dying birds. "I didn't realize."

Taking a long drink of chardonnay, I mentally observed that the things Renee Swan "didn't realize" would probably fill up a matched set of Encyclopedia Britannicas.

"It's truly saddening that our own young people can't comprehend true talent," Renee continued, throwing a glare in Rose and Alice's direction. "But then, I suppose popular music is for the young."

"And not for the middle-aged," I chimed in.

Carlisle sent me a smoldering look and I couldn't help but smolder back, a smile curling the edges of my mouth. It was far, far too easy to bait Renee—and Carlisle too, for that matter. Except that I didn't feel as if I was baiting Carlisle; instead it felt more as if I were flirting with him. I took another sip of wine, and simmered under his gaze. I'd forgotten how good it felt to have a man look at you like a flesh and blood woman, not like a frozen, heartless bitch.

Bridget cleared the plates after the main course, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes at how Renee had barely touched her food. "That was a wonderful meal," Alice said pointedly. She had apparently also noticed how little Renee had eaten.

"It really was," Rose added, and Carlisle simply lifted his wineglass and smiled at me from his end of the table.

Renee didn't even make a pretense of touching her fruit sorbet, but I tackled mine enthusiastically, aware that I was definitely feeling the second glass of wine I'd had with dinner. I usually only stuck to one glass, because the Ice Queen couldn't ever be _tipsy_, but Esme could, and I'd decided to indulge. Besides, the extra wine was giving me enough courage to meet those increasingly bold stares of Carlisle's.

"What are you two up to tonight?" I asked Rose and Alice as we stood up from the table. As soon as I was on my feet, I realized that I was a tad south of tipsy, but I thought insolently, chastising the old, Ice Queen still trying to tell me what to do, I was _glad_ that was the case.

The girls exchanged quick glances. "I thought we'd go into town, to RoöBar," Rosalie said casually. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, no. Feel free to go. You girls have been cooped up here for long enough. I'll let Arthur know to have the car ready."

"Thank you, Esme," Rose said, leaning in to give me a quick hug. "We appreciate it." And while she still had her arms wrapped around me, she murmured into my ear, "You need to do something about the Carlisle situation. Should I ask Renee to join us?"

In the end, though, my courage failed, and I shook my head quickly. Having the girls take Renee out with them would mean there were no longer any excuses for inaction with Carlisle, and I wasn't ready to go there yet. "It's fine," I reassured Rose as I released her. "You two go and have fun."

Alice and Rose disappeared into the limo in a cloud of giggling laughter, flying hair and high heels. I realized as I watched them from a window that overlooked the front drive that I envied them their wild nights and their freedom. I had had my share of course—but it had only been a few months of blissful love followed by two years of fear and pain and never knowing if Eoghan would come home. In the end, I hadn't really enjoyed my teen years the way I'd expected to.

And of course, my deepest fear had become reality, and one night, Eoghan hadn't come home, but now twenty years later, I wasn't certain anymore that he had been the love of my life. Maybe, I thought as I turned away from the window, some people just didn't get that one great love.

I walked through my quiet house, wondering briefly where Carlisle and Renee were and hoping they weren't together, but of course, I was wrong. I found them on the back veranda, Renee holding a martini glass, and standing way too close to Carlisle.

"Renee. Carlisle," I greeted them, moving towards the wet bar to pour myself another glass of wine. Renee, I realized, was leaving me absolutely no choice. I was going to have to move in if only so I could preserve what I considered _mine_.

Carlisle had shed the suit jacket in deference to the early summer heat, even though the sun was already setting down over the water. He'd rolled up his shirt sleeves over surprisingly muscled forearms, and I let another long drink of wine slip down my throat as I approached the pair.

"Carlisle was just explaining to me how such an attractive looking man could still be a bachelor," Renee said with a sly smile in my direction, as if she could read my mind and knew that I was secretly attracted to him.

"He's a musician," I told her stiffly. "It's not really all that surprising. Would you mind giving us a minute? I have something I need to discuss with Carlisle."

Renee just looked at me, and then drifted a foot or two away, making a show of staring off in the direction of the swimming pool. I cleared my throat. "In private," I snapped at the clueless woman.

"I suppose I can accommodate you, even though Carlisle and I were having a lovely talk." Renee shot me one last resentful look as she disappeared inside the house.

"What was that about? Did you hear any news from Marcus?" Carlisle looked at me curiously, swirling his scotch on the rocks with one hand and leaning up against the veranda porch rail. With his white shirt open at the collar, the sunset setting his golden hair ablaze and his blue eyes burning into me, he had never looked more appealing. In fact, I couldn't remember when a man _period _had ever looked more appealing, even Eoghan.

Deliberately, without letting myself second guess or even _think, _I set my wine glass down on a nearby table, and walked towards him, the heels of my sandals clicking confidently and deliberately on the wood floor with a lot more certainty than I felt. I stopped in front of him, so close that it felt like the entire world had shrunk to just the intense blue of his eyes. I knew from the solemn, measuring gaze he gave me that he was perfectly aware of what I was about to do.

For a single heartbeat of time, I wondered if I could actually do it, but I realized I had to. Not just because it had been so long since I'd kissed a man I really _wanted _to kiss, but because I had to prove to myself that the old Esme, the Esme who had taken so many risks, who had evaded her handlers in London and had taken Eoghan's hand and walked into the sun-dappled streets of Dublin with nothing but a smile and a single suitcase, still existed somewhere inside of me. So I placed my hands on either side of him, the roughness of the wood abrading my palms, closed my eyes, and pressed my lips to his.

It was a strange kiss; a kiss of opposites and a kiss that I had never imagined or expected would ever happen, but in the end, was so inevitable that as soon as our lips met, I wondered why I had never let myself consider the possibility before.

But before the kiss could go any farther than just a simple brushing of my lips against his, Carlisle pulled away. "Wait," he said, reaching up to brush a strand of air behind my hear, his fingertips brushing my cheek. "Esme, what are you doing?"

I felt the dark, ugly twist of embarrassment and humiliating surface deep in my stomach. Hadn't he wanted this? He'd been looking at me like he'd been desperate to do just what I'd done. I'd practically waited for him to be certain before I'd kissed him. Maybe, I thought with growing despair, he wanted that bitch Renee instead.

"I was kissing you." I was shocked my voice sounded so even and calm. I felt like screaming at him for letting me down when I needed the reassurance the most.

He laughed then, and I felt my stomach twist even further. "I know _that_. What I mean is that you've never even noticed I was alive before Edward was taken."

"That's not true," I defended, though he wouldn't have known otherwise. I'd done everything I could to convince him that I disliked him and everything he stood for.

"I think it is. It's not true, or you've been hiding things from me. For a very long time."

I wanted to tell him that it was the latter; that I'd been attracted to him for longer than I could remember, and that I'd stopped myself from even thinking about it because I didn't think there was any point. Esme Platt could never be with Carlisle Masen. I still wasn't sure that she could, but I was done fighting what felt right and natural and _wonderful_. But the words stuck in my throat and I could only gape at him as he ran a hand through his hair and his expression took on a tinge of frustration.

"Am I crazy?" he continued. "Or did I miss something, Esme?"

"You missed something. I _wanted _you to miss something," I finally managed to push past my unresponsive and suddenly thick tongue. Why could he just _kiss _me and skip this conversation? I wanted to tell him how much I was attracted to him with my lips and my tongue, not with words.

He stared at me again, those serious blue eyes the most effective lie detector I'd ever experienced. I couldn't help it; I squirmed under his gaze and contemplated how I could get him to kiss me again. Or, I thought with sudden brilliance, I could just kiss _him _again.

So I did. Except this time, I pressed my lips to his with insistence and passion and desire, with all the words that I'd longed to say to him but hadn't since we'd first met, ten long years ago. I poured all the buried emotion, all the frozen moments of time into the kiss, and I felt him catch his breath—and then, finally, the moment that he gave up receiving any explanation and began to kiss me back.

The moment I'd taken Eoghan's hand that bright morning Dublin had defined me and my life for so long that I didn't know how to react when my entire universe shifted beneath my feet, and a different crossroads blossomed before me.

Carlisle's arms wrapped around me, his fingers brushing against the silky fabric of my dress, and his tongue caressed mine. I slipped my fingers through the short strands of hair at the base of his neck, and realized dimly, through the haze of passion and emotion that I'd blocked out for the last twenty years, that I didn't want to stop, and I certainly didn't want _him _to ever stop.

So, of course, stupidly, it was my turn to pull away. The air was thick with the unspoken words as I self-consciously brushed my mussed hair back from my face and experimentally licked my swollen lips. I wanted to say _something_, anything, but I didn't know what to say any more now than I had five minutes before. Even Carlisle seemed struck speechless now.

Finally, he spoke. "Why did you do that again?"

I shrugged, thinking the answer was obvious enough. "I wanted to," I told him. "I've wanted to for awhile now."

"This isn't some sick game that you're playing at because you don't like Renee," he stated rather than questioned.

"No. But if she was watching, I wouldn't be adverse to her seeing it."

He smiled at that. "I don't doubt it."

Experimentally, I laid my hands on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the crisp cotton of his shirt. "I know I haven't always been very. . ._nice_. But, there were circumstances out of my control. I. . .I was trying to be someone I wasn't."

"I know. I've told you before, I see right through you. I've always seen through you. Which is why I know that you didn't kiss me just because you wanted to." His tone was slightly reproachful and hurt, and I didn't understand. Didn't men _like _being kissed? Why did it even matter why I'd done it? Why did he care so much? But I never got the chance to ask, because he gently moved me to the side, his hands gentle on me, and I could tell he was leaving me.

"I'm just not sure this is a good idea, Esme. Everything is so complicated already."

I bit down on my lip so hard that I was surprised to taste blood as I licked my lips. "It doesn't have to be complicated. We like each other."

"No, I like you. I'm not sure what the hell you think of me. Especially after that. But it doesn't matter. I just don't want you to kiss me to prove something to yourself or to Renee. Kiss me because you want to."

And with that, he was gone, the veranda door shutting behind him. I glanced down at the glass of scotch he'd abandoned on the low wide railing, and picked it up, experimentally swirling it before taking a long, deep swallow, and then another. It helped kill the sickening humiliation, but it only seemed to highlight the burning, white hot shafts of _something _that kept firing across my nerves. My skin felt too tight, too thin, for what was contained underneath. I realized that I hadn't felt this way since Eoghan's death, and I realized it was because I _wanted _him. The kisses, apparently, had released a lot more than just Carlisle's questions.

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**One last quick note: it was my birthday last week and Josie wrote me the sweetest birthday, ExB fluff in the world. It's called Take Me to Fenway, and I was so touched. It's a MUST-read for anyone who likes baseball or fluff or cuteness or really just Edward/Bella :)**


	18. A Not So Noble Sacrifice

**AN: Thank you guys for the awesome reviews and the birthday wishes :) I know a lot of you have expressed interest in more Edward/Bella, even if you do enjoy the secondary characters, and I want you to know I AM listening. The next four chapters are all very ExB-centric, beginning with this one-and to me, this is the big turning point chapter. You'll see why.**

**Songs are updated on my profile (including an amazing cover of "Tonight, Tonight" by Passion Pit that you NEED to hear).**

**Thanks to JosieSwan, my awesome beta, and Izzzzy, my pre-reading cheerleader. None of this would be possible without either of you.**

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**Bella**

"You know what I have to do."

It had been hours since my breakdown. I felt hollowed out, like an over-enthusiastic sous chef had taken a melon baller to me just before a swanky brunch. In another world, there would be a whole hell of a lot of Bella in the fruit cups. In this world, though, I hadn't lost physical pieces of myself—only mental ones. Pride, first off.

"What do you mean?" I didn't even make a half-hearted attempt to drag my head off Edward's shoulder; it was unbearably heavy, despite that I was numb and couldn't think of a single thing past how good Edward still smelled. After the concert, he'd reeked of whiskey and sweat, but now, he was sweet and clean, like soap and a whole crate of broken hearts.

"You know." Edward said it almost impatiently, as if he didn't want to have the conversation, which I knew was true. And I knew exactly what he meant, and he was way too fucking right not wanting to discuss it. I knew it was only going to end in a stalemate, because there was no way in fucking hell that I was letting him do what he was about to suggest.

"No."

"You do know—" he began arguing again, this time with a hint of heat, but I interrupted him before he could go any further.

"No," I repeated again. "You're not going to do it. Of course I know what you mean." He couldn't see my eyes, but I rolled them anyway, for unnecessary emphasis.

"I'd like to see you come up with a better plan."

"I don't care how good it is," I retorted, still refusing to move from my extremely comfortable position, "I'm not worth it. Besides, this was all my fault. I got myself in; let me get myself out."

I felt Edward's chest rumble, as if he was growling with frustration at my decision. "I'm sorry," I added, self-consciously, "but I can't let you give yourself to them just to save me."

"And what about Emmett? And even me? Do you really think they won't kill me or force me through some other horrific means to do what they want?"

I swallowed hard, forcing down the suddenly thick panic. I wanted to believe that Edward wasn't right, but I knew he was. Still, it didn't change anything. It wasn't Edward's place to try to save me, not when I'd stupidly forced my way into the situation.

"Doesn't matter," I whispered. "You're not doing it." I couldn't bear the thought of him with Aro and Jane, at their side, doing their ill deeds. He was so incredibly talented, had such a bright future ahead of him, if he could only cut the crap and devote himself to his music.

"It's not your decision to make," Edward told me, much firmer this time. He thought he'd made the choice, but it was my job, I realized, to talk him out of it any way I could.

"I don't get a say?" I asked, finally raising my head and looking him straight in the eye. I knew Edward now—knew him well enough to know that with him, there was only the offensive. Going on the defensive was doomed from the start.

"You don't know I'm choosing the life they're offering because of you or Emmett."

"Your studied laidback tone could use some work," I told him. "Whatever you do, don't decide that because you're a musician you should be an actor too. Let me tell you right now, it's not for you. Edward Cullen is _not_ the next Beyonce Knowles."

"Please," he scoffed. "_Beyonce_. Don't make me laugh." His expression was almost right, but it was his eyes that gave him away. They were tired and haunted and I saw the same melodramatic angsty streak of martyrdom that had brought down countless so-called emo boys. But this time, it wasn't a pretentious act; it was real. We were living it. And I realized with a dip of my empty stomach, he was ready to make the choice. If Aro showed up in thirty seconds, he'd give himself away without a thought to his future or to what he was truly giving up.

It was that moment I realized that I didn't know Edward Cullen at all.

And just like that, he destroyed me. I'd been (relatively) safe before, when I'd thought all that his prickly exterior hid was a self-centered, self-absorbed, shallow core. But even Edward had depths, and as he let me see them for the first time, I felt my scruples and my sanity drifting away much more rapidly than I was comfortable with.

"You'd do it," I said seriously, sitting up now, pushing my body off of his with my hands. I couldn't touch him while we talked about this, because if I did, I might break down and cry on his shoulder and that had been only marginally acceptable the first time. The second, it would be unforgivable. "You'd seriously become one of the Red Hands. An Aro in training."

"I don't _want _to," he argued, "but how else do you propose to get out of this mess? And it won't be forever, I'll manage to get away from them in a couple of weeks. Maybe a month.

"Besides," he added, in a darker, wretched voice, his green eyes shifting to the floor to the right of my body, "it's in my blood after all."

"But you're not like them—blood isn't everything. Actually, blood isn't _anything_." I tried to forget that Edward had called me Brit Bitch for approximately the first week of our acquaintance and that as Edward Cullen of Athair, he'd regularly engaged in brawls with any English person he ran into. Maybe to him, blood _was _everything.

Of course, that kind of ridiculous, presumptive thinking led to genocide and warfare and hatred. I wanted, so desperately, to tell Edward that, but preaching at him about erroneous assumptions wasn't going to convince him the last place he belonged was the Red Hands—regardless of who's blood flowed through his veins.

I'd always loved him as a musician, but had always considered him a waste of breath as a human being; to my utter shock, I realized I wanted to tell him that he was worth _more _than this, but then I'd have to tell him exactly what he _was _worth—and that was a much more difficult proposition, because I was no longer sure I knew.

"Blood's worth more than you think," Edward told me bitterly.

"You're worth more," I argued now.

"And you're not? You just said you weren't worth me sacrificing myself."

I scooted back on the cot, until we were no longer touching. It had been a mistake to ever let my guard down around him; he was smarter than I'd ever given him credit for, and because I'd let him, he'd seen right through me.

"This isn't about me being a hypocrite," I reasoned, "it's about the fact that you're an immensely successful and talented musician and I'm just. . .I'm just Bella Swan."

Edward's jaw worked and I could see that he was close to losing his temper. Good, I thought, feeling the tears rise hot and urgent in my throat again, he would get angry and then I'd lose this terrible need to sob on his shoulder yet again. Anger was better than grief any day of the week.

"Just Brit Bitch," I continued, but before I could get any farther he cut me off.

"Cut the shit. You're not _just _that." Edward ran a hand through this hair, leaving it standing up in a dozen different directions. "And you know that. You're just trying to distract me now. I've made up my mind."

"I just don't think it's a _real _solution," I told him. "A real solution would be one that would work for both of us."

"And what would that be? Attack Aro? Jane? We're both crazy, but we're not that crazy."

He had a point there. I thought that Jane alone could probably kick both of our asses without breaking a sweat.

"I don't like it," I said flatly. "My opinion is still no."

"I never said you had to like it," Edward said with a grimace of frustration. "And I didn't bring this up to fight with you over it. I just brought it up so that you would know what I was planning to do. So when the time comes, you just smile and nod, and run far, far away."

"No," I told him stubbornly.

"This isn't up for discussion, Swan."

"You're not sacrificing yourself for me, I won't allow it."

"You haven't developed a selective hearing loss, so I _know _you heard me before: I'm not sacrificing myself for you. It's the best possible outcome. Besides, it's not exactly a sacrifice."

"Don't lie. We both know that the last thing you want to do is go with them. If you're going to do this -which is still under discussion, by the way- then at least don't pretend it's because you want to."

Edward didn't answer right away. His jaw was tight again, and I knew that he was probably railing against me mentally. It was probably wrong of me to argue this way, to try to save someone who 1) didn't want to be saved and 2) had been such a monumental asshat towards me. I couldn't deny it any longer; I had inevitably and irrevocably softened towards him, and I couldn't bear the thought of him becoming any more fucked up because of Aro and his sick partner In crime.

"Bella," he finally said, and his voice was calmer, "please let me do this." I wondered if I was crazy to think that he'd almost added, "for you." Maybe I was just imagining things. Maybe my mental breakdown from earlier had totally unhinged me. Or maybe Edward was softening towards me too, he just didn't understand the concept of actually _liking _someone.

"I don't like how you just decided how it was going to be, as if your life is worthless and mine isn't. As much as I hate to say it, we're a team, Cullen. You can't treat me like a helpless female."

"God damn it. I wasn't doing that. I just . . .I just. . .I wanted to protect you, okay? Seeing you cry. . ." Edward set his jaw and his fists clenched in the mussed sheets. "It wasn't something I could handle. As crazy as that sounds."

I froze, in the middle of combing through my hair with my fingers. My skin went numb and dead with the shock, and I couldn't even feel the tangles as I grasped the strands in my fingers. "Uh yeah," I stuttered, "that sounds pretty crazy."

"It is," he muttered, "but it's true. I can't -I _won't - _let them do anything to you. Even if you brought this on yourself. It isn't about fault anymore. Besides, I'm sure it wouldn't exactly be tough to come up with some way that I've screwed up."

"Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you're getting sick," I snarked because the seriousness in Edward's voice scared me almost more than Jane did. I wanted to cling to the knowledge that he was an abusive, womanizing jerk, but he was making it really difficult.

But I knew it would be even more difficult if I took what he said at face value; if I believed him, then I wasn't entirely sure I could keep my defenses up any longer.

"I'm not sick," he snapped. "And so much for you getting on me for not being able to have serious conversations. You're positively allergic to them."

He was so right. I hid all my feelings -the fear, the hate, the love, and the hurt- under a layer of sarcasm and witty remarks, and I wasn't exactly appreciative that he had seen right through me. Only Alice was allowed to do that. Not even Renee had noticed, and she'd known me longer than anybody, but then she wasn't the most observant mother I'd ever met.

"I know you're scared. And fuck, I'm scared too. But take your own goddamn advice, and be a team, Bella."

"I didn't think you'd actually listen to me. Or take me all that seriously," I admitted.

"Well, it's good advice. And I'm willing to take you seriously if you would _act _serious."

Being schooled by Edward Cullen was a novel experience, and I couldn't help but listen.

"You have a good point," I ventured, "but don't think that means _all _your points are valid. So instead of martyring yourself for a cause you don't even believe in, are you willing to consider another plan to get out of here?"

"You're wrong."

"I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong. Besides I asked you a yes or no question."

"No, I mean, you're technically _right_, because I'm willing to consider another plan, but I wouldn't be martyring myself for the cause."

I stared at him. "Are you actually correcting my _grammar _usage right now? Are you still Edward Cullen or did you undergo a brain transplant?"

"You said that I'd be martyring myself for a cause I don't believe in. I'm not. I'm martyring myself for you. And so yes, you're wrong; I _do _believe in you. You _and _Emmett. I wouldn't ever do it otherwise."

Just like that, Edward blew the wind right out of my sails. And the snark right out of my mouth.

"Even after what Emmett did to you?"

Edward shrugged. "He did what he had to do. I know he wouldn't ever hurt me on purpose. We're friends. He wouldn't have acted the way he did if he didn't care about me at all."

"He protected you when you wouldn't protect yourself," I stated, pretty sure I was guessing correctly. Emmett had acted protective around Edward, and it was highly likely that if he hadn't had someone on his side, on the inside, during all the stupid shit he'd done, there was no way that Edward would still be alive.

"I wouldn't go _that _far," Edward said self-consciously, and I knew that we'd been as touchy-feely as he could be for the time being.

"Fine," I conceded. "But seriously. Maybe we can get him involved. When he takes you to shower, can you talk to him privately?"

"Yeah. And we've discussed it briefly a few times. The last time, though, he told me he couldn't help when I brought it up."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" I asked. I wasn't going to lie; for being the good guy, Emmett was sure edging towards being the antagonist in this whole scenario.

Edward simply shrugged. "Honestly? I'm not entirely sure. But I get that he's in a difficult position."

"It doesn't have to be difficult," I argued. "All he has to do is help us. Just a little. Maybe leave the door unlocked or something. Or punch Jane in the face."

"I'm not sure punching Jane in the face is a 'little' thing," Edward argued.

"Just promise me that you'll bring it up. If he thinks you're going to martyr yourself for him, maybe he'll see reason."

"Fine. But I don't think he's lacking reason. Maybe he's not doing anything because he _has _reason, and he knows what Aro and Jane would do to him."

I tried really, really hard not to shudder, because even though we weren't technically touching, I knew Edward would feel the tremor, but my emotions were running too hot and too close to the surface, and I couldn't hide my fear.

"Hey, it's alright. It'll be okay."

"You don't know that," I said softly. "You're just hoping. Blindly." I looked up into his shadowed green eyes, and I saw the wishful thinking there, along with an edgy determination. It was entirely possible that Edward had never been determined to do anything before now—except to drink as much booze as humanely possible and nail a different hot blonde every night. But he was definitely determined now.

"Is that wrong?" he asked, reaching out and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. Gently, he pulled me back, until I was flush against him. "We have to believe in something. I just choose to believe that we can get out of here."

I closed my eyes, and knew the tears were about to come flooding back. It had been so much easier when Edward had been an asshat. I couldn't believe I was wishing for a return of that version, but this newer, sensitive, actually _human _Edward was wearing down my self-control.

"No," I croaked. "You're right." A tear slid down my cheek, and he brushed it away, his expression serious.

"Maybe," he said, and then paused, shaking his head. As if he couldn't believe his own stupidity. "No. Nevermind."

"Tell me," I demanded, desperate to move onto a topic that wouldn't make me cry anymore than I already wanted to.

"Just. . .this" Edward said, and I saw the intention on his face a split second before he kissed me for the third time. His lips brushed mine, and this, our third kiss, was totally, completely, one hundred percent different than the first two.

The first had been the night we'd met, when I'd masqueraded as a groupie, and he'd kissed me because that was what Edward Cullen did. I'd known better than to think it had anything to do with Bella Swan as a person, because it didn't. The second kiss had been an almost completely sexual escape from the horrendous situation that we'd found ourselves in. It had meant a little more than the first, because now Edward knew me, and so he was really kissing me, _Bella_, because he couldn't exactly claim he didn't.

But this was different. He knew me; he wanted me. But, most importantly, he _liked_ me—though I was sure he would never admit it. And, god, as much as I hated the thought, and dreaded what it was going to mean, I _really _liked him. I liked his irreverent and snide remarks. I liked his casual musical brilliance. I liked that he'd worshipped Trent Reznor and that he'd known immediately which Nine Inch Nails song was my favorite. I liked the respect that grown in his eyes, and that he'd finally conceded we were a team.

It was the ultimate adventure into stupidity and foolishness, but I couldn't deny it any longer. So I kissed him back.

The kiss was all Edward but I could feel, in the insistent desperation of his lips and the fervent need of his tongue, just how much he wanted me—and I wasn't just a faceless replacement. His hands cupped my cheeks, his fingertips brushing the strands of my hair away from my face, and as the kiss became more passionate, he pulled me down onto the cot, our mouths never breaking.

Hard truth blasted through me, like a shot of adrenaline to my sluggishly-beating heart. Objectively telling myself I didn't even like Edward Cullen was a thing of the past. I wove my fingers through his damp bed hair, unashamed at how fiercely I pulled him towards me, against me. That was one thing I would never have to feel when I was with him—guilt at how much, how desperately, I wanted him sexually. And I couldn't pretend that I didn't anymore. Lust beat in my blood like a drugging, insistent drumbeat, and I could only move to its staccato rhythm. It claimed me, owned me, insisted that I give myself up to its persistent, unbearable need. I pushed against Edward, wrapped my legs around his waist, and rubbed against his jean-clad thigh. I moaned, not only because it felt amazing, but because it seemed to, if only for a moment, cool the overheated blood that threatened to boil me alive.

I'd begged for, and finally received, a pair of Edward's castoff boxer shorts, and had substituted the tattered, far-too-small jean skirt for them two days before. The silky cotton fabric felt like nothing against the hard, real thigh that pressed against the seam. Objectively, I knew I was pretty unabashedly humping his leg, but I didn't care anymore. This was Edward Cullen; if he wasn't good for it, then nobody else in the world would be.

Edward shifted over me, slanting his mouth down hard over mine, his fingers trailing down from my hair to my breasts, and suddenly, my body, which had been merely kindling before this moment, caught fire. Instead of his thigh, I was rubbing on something else, something hot and hard, and something that I rather desperately wanted inside me. I forgot all about the possibility that Edward was a living STD mule, and breaking the kiss with a gasp, bit down hard on the skin of his neck and demanded that he eliminate the flames licking up my skin.

My eyes drifted shut and I only felt, the blackness of my vision enhancing my other senses. I could smell the fresh scent of his soap on the surprisingly satiny slope of his neck. I traced the tendons of it with my tongue, tasting the soapy, sweet essence of him, and was rewarded with Edward pushing his hard cock even more insistently into the increasingly damp crotch of his old boxers. I could hear every single pant, every brief moan as he traced swirls of torturous pleasure on my breasts. But most of all, I _felt_. His hands. His tongue. His cock.

I was so damn close, and I panted it to him, as we moved in unison. I'd never believed before now that I could get "carried away" the way that some girls claimed they did. "It was an accident," they'd always claim, when they'd show up nine months pregnant. I'd always wanted to ask them if they'd fallen off a cliff, and that's how they'd gotten knocked up. But now, with Edward around me, and nearly in me, I could definitely begin to see their side. It was so easy to just push away what was important, what was _sensible_, and ignore the logical part of yourself that said this was a monumental mistake.

Why? Because the feel of being wanted so much was intoxicating, and I was willingly taking whatever I could before the source dried up completely. But it didn't seem as if that was going to happen any time soon, because I opened my eyes briefly, and the intensity of desire on Edward's face blinded me and spurned me on. He wanted me; I wanted him. It felt natural and real and nothing like that manufactured, bored lechery that he'd played at the first night we'd met, and I never, ever wanted to stop.

And then. . .suddenly, he just did. Stopped, I mean. Abruptly. As if. . .no. _No_. My mind, foggy with lust and so much fucking _like, _couldn't wrap itself around the concept. Did Edward. . .?

"Shit, I'm sorry, but did you just come in your pants?"

Edward's head reared up suddenly, and his eyes went so wide that I thought maybe he was about to have a seizure. I clapped a hand over my mouth—I must have said it out loud. All I'd been thinking of thirty seconds before was that I wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. And then it had ended, and I'd been like a spoiled child, whining for more of her favorite candy.

"I'm sorry, I totally didn't mean to say that. . ." I rambled, as Edward pulled back farther from my body. My legs slipped from his hips and it was so dark it was difficult to tell exactly, but I thought he might be red. Like flaming red. With a helping of beets and sunburn.

"It's alright," Edward mumbled, while he ran a hand through his hair, nearly making it stand on end. I blushed and looked away, ashamed at the sudden surge of lust that reignited at the sight.

And then I put it together, even though it made no sense. "You really did, didn't you?" I asked in amazement. "I did that. Me, Bella Swan, made you come in your pants."

He blushed again and ducked his head. "I'm ashamed to say that yes, yes, you did. You, Bella Swan, made me come in my pants. I didn't even have a chance to get them off—or yours off, for that matter."

"I thought dry humps were an urban legend."

"Apparently not. After all, it only takes one time for them to be true, right? And well. . .the evidence of this truth is soaking through my boxers right now. I'm going to chafe something awful."

I made a face. "That'll make two of us that are uncomfortable."

His eyes rose to meet mine, and suddenly, he wasn't blushing anymore. "Are you saying that you didn't?"

It was unfortunately my turn to blush and I was sure that I put even Edward's epic blush from a minute ago to shame. "Yes," I mumbled, my eyes becoming better acquainted with the edge of the oversized t-shirt I wore. The t-shirt that Edward had just his hands under. My own trembled, as I dug my fingers into the cot's mattress. What had I been thinking? This whole idea had been a monumental mistake. Even if I'd made Edward Cullen come in his pants.

Wait. What was I thinking? It was even _more _of a disaster because of that—because despite his womanizing reputation, he clearly didn't know how to please the girl as well as himself. And that was just plain fucking unacceptable.

"Hold on a second," Edward said lazily, his own gaze traveling up my bare legs to the boxer shorts that were probably still wet with how much I'd wanted him. Still wanted him, I corrected, but that didn't matter.

"What?" I said, as I moved closer to the foot of the bed.

"No. Stop." Edward grabbed my arm and held me fast as he suddenly was kissing me again. It was as hot as it had been before, the misgivings I'd experienced and his own orgasm lost in the flames that engulfed me all over again. Apparently, I thought right as they pulled me under, it didn't matter how many good intentions I had, or what had happened between us, we still had good chemistry.

Edward's hand slid up my leg, finding out what I already knew—that I was horny as hell—and I corrected myself as his fingers maneuvered past the flimsy cotton material as if it didn't exist. Our chemistry wasn't just good; it was fucking _amazing_.

We kissed again as his hand set out to prove that I'd been completely, totally wrong about him. He _did _care, apparently, that I hadn't orgasmed and he had, because it was only a matter of moments, and he was already making me feel better than he had when I'd been rubbing myself all over his cock.

"Good?" he crooned as he sank one finger, and then two into my heat, rubbing his thumb over my clit, setting an agonizing, teasingly slow pace that made my eyes nearly roll back in their sockets. I pulled his head down to meet mine with a sharp tug, and kissed him hard, answering him with my mouth instead of with a bunch of unnecessary words.

I'd always heard that guitarists had very talented hands, and I was happy to discover that this was another urban legend that turned out to be correct, at least in Edward's case. I'd already been so turned on and close to orgasming from before, that it only took a minute for Edward's fingers to play the tune that I needed so desperately, and I shut my eyes tightly and let the waves of pleasure pull me under.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw Edward's green ones right above me, the edges crinkling with amusement. "Are you laughing at me?" I mumbled, sitting up a little.

"Not exactly no. More amused. Amused that you were so pleased with yourself, amused that you thought I wouldn't help you the same way you helped me. You're a very interesting girl, Bella Swan."

Something irrevocable bloomed inside as he smiled down at me—something that I wouldn't have wanted to take back even if I could. But I was too smart to call it what it was. Labeling it would only lead to disaster.

"And you're not quite the emotionless robotic jerk that I thought you were. You apparently have some uses," I told him, unable to help smiling back at him, my heart thudding almost harder that it had been while he was touching me.

Edward laid his head down and reached out to pull me towards him. As my head settled on his chest, and I felt the emotional and physical exhaustion pull me towards sleep, I couldn't help the single stray thought:

What would happen if Edward Cullen ever fell in love?

More importantly, could he even fall in love?

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**AN: Important questions, hmmmm, yes? Followed by a shameless pimp; I'd love to get to 1,000 reviews in the next few chapters. Anyone like to help AND tell me what they think of the chapter at the same time, that would be amazing :)**

**Quick reminder: I will be posting the outtake and/or prequel one shot to this story, _Transgressions of a Mother_, on Wednesday. So keep an eye out for that.**


	19. A Prodigal Son

**AN: Wow, you guys rock! I'm so touched by how much everyone loves this story. Big hugs all around! I couldn't ask for any better fans. In case anyone noticed, I finally went ahead and renamed all the chapters and titled them (versus the confusing numbers). I've never done chapter titles before, and I'm really enjoying the extra little oomph I can give to the chapter. I've also updated the playlist.**

**Thanks, as always, go out to my amazing beta, JosieSwan (who just posted her new story, _An Unexpected Lady_-check it out), and my cheerleader/pre-reader, Izzzzy.**

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**Chapter 19: A Prodigal Son**

**Emmett**

"Two outs, bottom of the 8th. . . .looks like they're bringing Daniel Bard in. What do you think? Is Bard going to be a good replacement for the All-Star closer the Red Sox just lost for good?" Don Orsillo asked Remy through the crackling on the shitty television with the even shittier reception.

"Honestly, I don't believe Whitlock's replaceable. He'll be a legend in Boston for a long, long time. Two World Series rings and one of the lowest post-season ERAs I've ever seen. Bard's got huge shoes to fill, that's for sure."

I glanced away from the game on the flickering screen as I heard the thick heavy soles of Jane's combat boots approaching the living room. "Still watching the worst sport ever created?" she hissed, her cold, dead eyes sliding over me like I was a piece of meat she couldn't wait to bite into and chew up.

I barely restrained the shudder that passed through me at her possessive look. "Baseball is America's pastime," I told her, careful to keep my tone of voice neutral. During the best of times, Jane was a fucking scary bitch, but with Niall here, she was honed to a knife edge, and I didn't want to tangle with her.

"I can't believe that you find this interesting," she sneered, gesturing to the TV , where the Sox were hosting the Toronto Blue Jays at Fenway Park. "Of course, with your mental capacity, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

Unscrewing the cap off my water bottle slowly and deliberately, letting the liquid slide down my throat, and wishing that it was whiskey or maybe arsenic, I still refused to look directly at her. She was fucking Medusa in the flesh, a nightmare brought to all too real life. And maybe, I thought absently, aware that my thoughts were taking a dangerously pessimistic, nearly-nihilistic turn, if I didn't look directly at the problem, I could forget all about the shit storm I had brought down on us all.

"Did you give Edward and Bella dinner?" I risked asking, because at this point, I wasn't sure I cared about my own skin more than I cared about theirs. Of course, if I really cared, I would have been able to do something to get us out of here, but every time I nearly made my move, I could only see Rosalie's ocean-blue eyes staring reproachfully at me. _What about us? _she would ask, her lip trembling, those eyes overflowing with bitter disappointment, _what about our future?_

I couldn't fucking do it—I couldn't sign away my future before I'd even had a chance to live it. And I knew, if I betrayed the Red Hands, if I managed to save Edward and Bella, I would be consciously choosing their future lives over my own.

It was selfish and it was weak, but I loved Rosalie too much to give her up.

Instead of facing the problem, I'd spent the last three days hiding in the living room, gorging myself on cheap junk food and guilt. I'd finally turned on the television, and the Sox game that was on had sent a sharp jab of self-hatred right through my gut. Edward and I, we were supposed to have been at that game. We both loved baseball, and while I wasn't from Massachusetts initially, Edward had eventually worn me down into embracing the Red Sox. We'd made plans to catch a few games at Fenway while we were in town, and I wanted nothing more than to simply close my eyes, and open them to see the raucous crowd of believers, holding Fenway Franks and plastic cups of overpriced beer.

"I was just about to," Jane said, and I finally glanced over to see a pair of sandwiches in her hand. "But you're coming with me."

So she'd noticed that I'd been avoiding ever seeing Edward when I wasn't directly ordered to go into the room and escort either one of them to the bathroom, and she'd decided in that fucked up, emotionally-blackmailing brain of hers, that it was going to be a fun game to play.

I hit the power button on the remote, the Blue Jays and the Red Sox disappearing off the television screen. "Fine," I told Jane shortly. "Though I'm not sure why that's necessary."

She stared at me for a moment, without replying, and I knew what it felt like to be meal right before a cobra struck. "Because you don't want to. That's reason enough. Shame," she told me, as we walked down the hallway to Edward and Bella's jail, "is for the weak and the stupid. I thought you wanted to be with us, join us."

Her hand paused over the locks, and disgust with her, but more at myself, rippled dark and angry in my stomach. "I never said I'd join you."

"You brought them here." Her voice was smug.

"I _had _to," I insisted, in a low menacing growl. "You fucking forced me."

She stared back at me with cold reptilian eyes. "There's always a choice. And you made yours."

As she slid the locks free of the door and stepped into the dark room, I followed behind her, wishing that I could argue with her. But facts were facts, and regardless of why I had done what they'd asked, I'd still done it.

"Surprise," Jane hissed with derision as the door shut behind her. My eyes, still adjusting to the black gloom, could only make out the vaguest outlines of the two figures on the bed. Bella sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, as if she had just woken up, and to my astonishment, it looked as if she had been sleeping withEdward, their legs and arms tangled up together. But before I could contemplate what that meant, Edward looked right at me, and another wave of nauseous guilt hit me full on.

"After you eat," Jane barked like a drill sergeant, "you're to see Aro."

By this point, I had grown used to the darkness and I couldn't help seeing the discomfort that flashed across Edward's face. I hadn't really understood until this moment just how Edward didn't want to be part of the Red Hands. I'd suspected it before, but I knew without a doubt that I had done him a major disservice and I ought to do whatever I could do get him out.

If only I didn't understand what doing that would mean.

Bella was only picking at her sandwich, not eating it automatically, as Edward did, chewing and swallowing as if eating was simply a physical function at this point. But there was something white and drawn about Bella's face that I didn't like—and her lack of appetite was even more worrisome. I was about to say something, despite Jane's presence, when she latched onto it like a rabid dog with a bone.

And that was when I understood why Bella didn't have an appetite: Jane had started her war of emotional attrition and it wasn't against Edward, like I'd expected it would be, but against Bella. Which, in retrospect, made the most sense. Edward was a man of strong opinions and a stronger personality. She wouldn't see him as a challenge, and besides, it was likely that Aro had already instructed Jane not to fuck him with specifically. I was pretty damn sure that no such instructions had been issued to protect Bella.

I had enough experience with Jane to know that her own sex held very little respect in her eyes. She saw most women as automatically weak and defenseless. Of course, she would latch onto Bella as a much more suitable target than Edward. And it had appeared that this had already begun, and somehow, through my malaise of guilt, I'd missed it.

"Not hungry?" Jane crooned to Bella, her posture, her voice, her actions all patronizing of the younger girl. Bella stiffened and glanced up, like a deer caught in the headlights of a particularly menacing eighteen wheeler.

I could tell by the way Edward stiffened next to him that he was all too aware of Bella's fear of Jane, and I tensed for an inevitable altercation. I just hoped that it didn't go as far as I feared it would. Aro, who didn't give a shit about Bella, wouldn't put Jane on a leash, and Jane without necessary precautions was something I'd yet to encounter, but her reputation proceeded her.

Bella shook her head firmly, trying—and briefly holding—Jane's dead gaze for longer than I'd expected she would. "I'm fine," she rasped out and I saw her swallow convulsively.

I gave Bella credit for trying, but Jane was like a shark; once there was blood in the water, you were done for.

"Oh, I think you're fine alright," Jane purred hypnotically, taking a step closer, and then another. "You're _fine _because rock star over here is giving it to you on an hourly basis."

"No," Bella stuttered, shock all over her pretty face, "no. . . ._no_, we haven't been, you sick twisted bitch."

Jane just smiled, and I didn't blame Bella from recoiling from that unappetizing show of teeth. "Sick, am I? If I am, then you are too. We're both the same—we like it when powerful men take us and we can take them. I'll wager that Edward's got nothing on Aro though. Perhaps I should let you have a little taste of him, see what you've been missing."

Bella's eyes grew wild at that moment and her face impossibly white. I had to swallow down the awful guilt that threatened to spill out of my throat, along with the Doritos and the cans of cherry coke.

"No," Bella insisted, but her voice wasn't as insistent as it was scared shitless. "I'd rather die first."

From my vantage point, I saw Bella reach out and grip Edward's hand, and I was so surprised by that I didn't anticipate or block what Jane did next.

Her hand struck like a cobra and hit Bella square in the face, forcing her head back, and then I saw only red. Blood on Bella's hands as she held her hands up to her bleeding nose and blood on Edward's shirt as he bent over her and tried to staunch the flow. My visual field went flat and red, and fury pumped through me, hot as lava.

I wasn't consciously aware of attacking Jane, but one moment I was standing to the side, reeling from what Jane had just done to Bella, and the next, Jane was against the wall and her throat was in my hands.

I could feel her pulse under my fingers, and I longed to extinguish it, but I hadn't traveled far enough on the expressway to hell to tighten my grip and finish it once and for all.

But Jane wasn't a scary bitch and Aro's #2 for nothing. I only had the upper hand for a brief moment, and even though I was probably twice her size, she twisted out of my grip and I was gasping as she slammed a rock hard fist into my midsection.

"Trying to be a hero? " she sneered. "Don't even think about it."

"Keep your hands off of her," I gasped, as got to my feet. "Do what you want to me, but don't you fucking touch her again."

"Emmett," I heard Edward hiss from somewhere behind me. But all my attention was focused on the grinning bitch in front of me, and I wanted to wipe that smile away by fucking demolishing her face.

I was stronger, but she was faster, and I caught her arm in my fist, mere inches from my face. "You can only touch me if I let you; right now I'm not feeling inclined," I growled as I flung her arm to the side and followed it up with a sharp hook to her jaw. The crack echoed through the room, and as Jane's head flew back and my knuckles made jarring, painful contact with her chin, I thought it might have been enough. An eye for an eye, anyway.

But as her gaze swung back to me, I realized that I'd just made a tactical error. She was angry now—angry and humiliated, her authority questioned in front of both Edward and Bella—and she would never let me get away with that. I braced myself for the impact of Jane in a rage, but before she could fling herself at me, there was a sharp exclamation that could have only been an order, issued in Gaelic.

Jane's fighting posture instantly went slack, and I glanced back to see Aro, hard lines of fury etched into his already worn face, standing in the open doorway.

"No more," he ordered again, and I forced my muscles to relax, one by one. Jane might have been scary, but Aro was scarier only because he was a psycho on a power trip. At the end of the day, Jane was just a garden variety psycho. I wasn't going to cross him while in an adrenaline fueled rage; if I was going to do it, I was at least going to think about it first.

I thought Aro was going to interrogate Jane right here and now about what had happened, because he was giving her a cold, deadly look that screamed "what the fuck did you just do, bitch," but he only said, "Jane, bring Edward with you. But first, remind Emmett who's side he's on." And then he was gone, leaving an unsettled silence in his absence.

I tensed, sure that Jane's reminder would surely be physical. But she only gestured to the doorway. "Edward, Emmett, you heard Aro. And believe me, his orders are to be obeyed."

Jane was a freak of nature, and if even _she _obeyed Aro without a single word, then I didn't even want to consider how terrifying the man in charge could get. As I walked towards the doorway, I forced myself to look straight at Bella, my stomach churning with guilt and self-hatred.

Her face was still drawn and pale, red splotches of blood marring her white skin. It didn't appear that her nose was broken, thank god, and she looked mostly unscathed from Jane's attack. In fact, I thought, as I met her eyes, she seemed a bit steadier, more determined. And Edward. . .

Edward. I'd seen him in towering, flaming rage lots of times. Weekly, in fact. He was notorious in the music industry for his temper, and I realized for the first time since I'd entered the room that it had been _him_ who'd kept it under control and me who'd lost the tenuous hold on my self-control. And it wasn't because he wasn't angry. I could see his fury in his eyes, in the set hard line of his jaw, and the way that his shoulders seemed so tense they might rip through his thin t-shirt.

But he wasn't in Jane's face, he wasn't screaming or yelling or trying to kick her ass. Instead, he was cradling Bella's face in his hands, holding her tightly to him, and he didn't even glance up to see me staring. I'd never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at Bella, and the shock of it knocked the breath out of me. I knew that look—more than knew it; I was intimately familiar with how it felt to wear it.

Because that was exactly how I looked at Rosalie.

Never had I wanted more to be worthy of her, of her love, but I realized that the one thing I could do to _be _worthy would probably mean that we'd never be together. It hurt so fucking bad, giving up on the last vestige of hope that I had with her, but Edward's expression as he'd stared at Bella trumped even the ache of losing Rose.

And as Edward finally rose, giving Bella one more reassuring rub to her back, and followed me out of the room, what I had to do was taking shape in my mind.

* * *

**Edward**

I'd never understood why Esme's temper could be so icy, so controlled. Mine had always been an explosive volcano of rage, and I'd never been able to control it—and I'd never wanted to.

I understood today. When that fucking _bitch _had hit Bella, every molecule in my body had gone cold and hard and frozen with fury. I'd shook with the sheer power of my anger, but in that moment, I hadn't done what I normally would have expected out of myself. I was the guy who got in fights, who got kicked out of bars for brawling, who punched assholes out at the slightest provocation.

But today, all I could think of was _Bella _and the blood dripping onto my hands, and the fear and the pain in her eyes and in the lines around her mouth as she'd clutched at me. The anger had faded, had been ultimately insignificant in the face of the worry and the undeniable need to make sure she was alright.

I sat in front of my uncle, and felt, for the first time since it had happened, my temper begin to thaw. He had permitted this. He had allowed Jane to do what she'd done—and if not specifically, then by the very act of never forbidding it. He was her keeper, her leash, her master. That much was abundantly clear, based on the little show he'd put on for all of our benefit. He was the puppeteer and we were dolls on strings to him.

"I apologize for you having to see that," he said as he settled behind the massive desk.

My jaw tightened as I realized that he hadn't apologized for the act itself; only that I had been a witness to it.

"Our lives. . .they aren't pretty," Niall said by way of explanation, spreading his arms wide, a smile on his face, as if he was begging my pardon. Begging me to understand that this was simply the way things were, as if he had no real choice in the matter.

But I would be stupid to not _know _that the only one making decisions around here was him. The jovial, semi-concerned uncle, that was the act. The cold, hard in-control machine from earlier was the real Niall. I'd always wondered what my father had been like, and now I was no longer sure I wanted to know.

"You father, he never liked it either," Niall continued, "but war is violent by nature. It's unfortunately unavoidable."

I couldn't help the interest he roused in me at the mention of my father, as if he'd been reading my mind and knew that I'd been thinking of him—as if I could think of anything while sitting in a room with his only brother. I didn't want to cooperate with Niall in the least, especially not after what his second-in-command had done to Bella, but it was impossible to erase twenty six years of desperation with a week of fear and attrition.

"Ah, so you want to know about him, then." I looked up to see Niall staring at me, a sly, knowing smile on his face.

I wanted nothing more than to shake my head, and tell him to go to hell, but I couldn't. Not after Esme's tight-lipped scraps of information and all the years of wanting more.

I nodded.

"I thought you might. I thought that might change your mind. You're more like him than you realize. He felt everything so strongly—love and hate. At first, it was all hate, all anger, all resentment, and he channeled it all into the Cause. He was relentless. Desperate. He would have been appalled to see all our brethren give up so damn easily."

I wanted to correct Niall and insist that it hadn't been "giving up"—that the diplomatic solution had been so much better than the bombs and the machine guns and the blood and the death. But I knew better this time. So I kept my mouth shut and just listened.

"Then Eoghan met Esme. She was beautiful and fine and so innocent. Naïve. But sweet."

"Sweet?" I laughed without humor. "Esme?"

"Aye. Maybe not now, eh? But it's buried in there somewhere. She was so sweet, and Eoghan was crazy with love for her." Niall leaned his head back, and something unpleasant and terrifying coalesced inside my mind. Something that he hadn't elaborated on, but I couldn't help but add two and two and get four. I hoped I was wrong, but I thought with a sickening sense of foreboding that I didn't think I was. The point Niall had made had been too marked to ignore. Maybe he hadn't even realized he had said it.

_At first, it was all hate, all anger, all resentment, and he channeled it all into the Cause . . . Then Eoghan met Esme._

I swallowed hard; I _had _to ask, but I wasn't sure I wanted to know. "What happened after he met my mother?"

Niall's head snapped up, and his eyes met mine. "What do you mean, boyo?"

"You said he was all hate. . .all vengeance. And then he fell in love. Did he quit the Red Hands after he met my mother? I thought he died from an English bullet."

There was a single beat of terrifying silence as Niall stared me down, and I wanted to cower, like the five year old that I no longer was, but Bella had held her own with Jane—I could hold my own with Niall. I stiffened my back and forced myself to stare back.

"And he did. He was arranging a special surprise for some visiting dignitaries. English, of course, and they had a tip of where he would be. Quit. _Quit_." Niall thought that was apparently funny enough that he started laughing, vastly amused by the idea that someone would actually quit the Red Hands.

Or that they would ever be permitted to.

I understood then what my father had likely sacrificed for me, to get me and my mother out of the Red Hands clutches, and why Esme had done everything she could to protect me and dissuade me from learning more about them. They were dangerous and psychotic, and clearly didn't stop at anything to get what they wanted.

"You are to join us, boyo. To avenge your father's death. To carry on his legacy. It's in your blood."

Unbidden, Bella's words from earlier echoed in my head. _But you're not like them—blood isn't everything. Actually, blood isn't _anything_._

I wanted to believe her. I _did _believe her—at least I was beginning to. I didn't think, as low as I had sunk in my life, that I would ever want to sink this low. My moral compass might not hit true north, but it also wouldn't ever condone death and destruction.

Seeing the blood dripping from Bella's nose, though, had solidified my resolve to save her, even if she refused to be saved. I opened my mouth to tell my uncle that yes, I would join him. Just as I was about to sign my own death warrant, the office door flew open and Jane stood there, her eyes huge and wild in her chiseled face.

"Aro, he's _gone_." She sounded shocked as if the concept of anyone fleeing from her particular brand of crazy bitch had never occurred to her before.

Niall stood so abruptly that the huge chair fell to the ground behind him in a terrible clatter. He set his hands on the desk and leaned forward, the dark green eyes burning in his face. "Who? Emmett? He would never."

Jane simply nodded, and I felt as I was seeing this in a movie theater. This wasn't my life. It couldn't be. Emmett couldn't have left me. I felt like laughing, or maybe like crying. I couldn't decide. There was no options anymore. I would _have _to join Niall if I was to get Bella out, and suddenly, that was all that mattered. To do one fucking thing that would have made my father proud, if he had lived, and I knew, knew so deeply that it felt inscribed in my core, that he would never have approved of all this. He had loved my mother. He had given his life to see that me and her could get out safely. There was, I decided, a certain poetic justice, an irony, in the way I was following in his footsteps.

"Take him back to the cell," Niall barked. "We will hunt for where Emmett has gone."

I didn't like the word _hunt_—it implied big game and even bigger guns. _Our lives. . .they aren't pretty_.

As Jane roughly pulled me to my feet, Niall had one last thing to say. "And Edward. You will decide and give me your answer when we return."

I wanted to give it to him now, before I had more time to second guess. More time for Bella to weasel her way in and convince me to change my mind, but before I could, Jane was shoving me through the doorway, her claw-like hands gripping my shirt as she pushed me forward, driving me faster than my feet could move.

Jane threw the locks on the door, and then I was shoved into the dark room. Stumbling forward, I heard the door clang with a horrible finality behind me, and just as I was sure I would lose my balance and fall, a hand caught me.

Bella.

* * *

**AN: Next chapter, we're briefly back with Esme and the gang for a loooooong (the longest yet) chapter, then it's more ExB for two more chapters. In case you hadn't noticed (yes, you, hiding under that rock), things are becoming fairly bleak. And yes, they are only going to get bleaker.**

**By the way, I did upload the outtake/prequel one shot that I wrote for FicsforNashville, titled, _Trangressions of the Mother. _While you can definitely read SotF without reading TofM, I think that it adds a lot, especially to the Esme chapters (and yes, hint hint. . .next chapter is a HUUUUUUGE Esme chapter).**


	20. Private Performances

**AN: Thanks for everyone's wonderful feedback on the last chapter-I appreciate the reviews so much. A few people have asked how Eoghan is pronounced-it's the Gaelic spelling of "Owen" and is pronounced the same way.**

******Playlist is updated, and music plays another big part of this HUGE chapter (yes, it's over 10,00 words). The song that Esme listens to is "Sweet Euphoria" by Chris Cornell.**

**Special thanks go to The Very Last Valkyrie for leaving the most amazing review for this story-and ironically, I read her Gossip Girl fic religiously, so that was really sweet to see :) Also, thanks (as always) to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, and my pre-reader Izzzy.**

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**Chapter 19: Private Performances**

**Esme**

Over the next twenty four hours, I learned that once you started to melt, thawing wasn't something you could reverse. Once it started, it gained strength, the momentum carrying me from one moment to the next. The kiss had been the final spark I'd so desperately needed, and though at the time, I'd managed to convince myself—and apparently Carlisle as well—that it was more about Renee and staking a claim than actually wanting him, as dusk passed and night fell, I knew I was wrong.

I'd left the back patio, and had climbed the stairs to my master suite, the lilac silk of the dress rustling in the absolute stillness of my bedroom. I usually liked the quiet; it had always soothed a restless and agitated mind, but now it just exacerbated all the forbidden thoughts, and they echoed far too loudly in the silence.

After changing out of the dress and slipping into a pair of silk pajama pants and matching tank top, I continued digging through my lingerie drawer until I found what I was looking for. The object in question was a crutch that I didn't allow myself to indulge in very often, and I should have known better than to turn to it tonight of all night's, but I was too weak to stay strong in the face of temptation.

I opened the jewel case and popped the CD out, walking over to the CD player in the wall of electronics that faced the small lounge area. I picked the remote off the side table and pressed play, and made sure to turn the volume down a few notches lower than usual. I typically had nobody to hide my indulgence from, but tonight, the last thing I wanted was anyone currently in this house discovering my secret. I'd absolutely never live it down, and because I was still Esme Platt, pride was still—as always—a consideration.

Even at a low volume, the music flowed through the speakers, wrapping me in complex emotions that I'd never understood before, but was beginning to slowly unravel. Tonight, I thought to myself, as I turned the CD case over and saw a much younger Carlisle staring back at me, those blue eyes devastating and completely unchanged, had been the first step in figuring out exactly why I couldn't shake this ridiculous obsession with him.

He didn't know it, of course, but I thought of him all the time. I'd desperately tried for years to drive him from my mind, from my wayward thoughts, but they'd always returned, inevitably, to him. To things he'd said, to looks he'd given me, to the selfless sacrifices he'd made to keep Edward relatively safe and unharmed. I owed him my gratitude, but I was beginning to realize that I'd always given him more.

Listening to him croon likely meaningless words of love had been a crutch for so long. A shameful, hidden fantasy that even though he hadn't even _met _me when he'd recorded this, it was still about me. He wasn't just singing it; it was a secret love letter to the woman who'd always snubbed him.

I was so caught up in the music, in the lyrics that he didn't mean, that I didn't hear the knock on the door, or it open. I certainly didn't hear his footsteps on the wooden floor, as he walked into my bedroom.

"I'm retired, but you do know that I'd give you a private performance if you asked."

I looked up, startled and instantly humiliated.

I fumbled for the remote, managing to skip to the next track, versus turn off the evidence. Too bad it was far too late to ever cover up the truth now.

I started at him, speechless and mortified, knowing that there had to be _something _I could say, but for the life of me, I had no idea what it was exactly. It was the very first time in my life as Esme Platt that I had ever been at a loss for words, and of course, the moment came when I needed them the very most. I wanted to wrap myself in them like armor so that intrigued blue-eyed stare couldn't weasel its way any farther into my heart.

"Well, I'll admit," Carlisle said, as he walked farther into the room—clearly deigning to do whatever the hell he wanted—and sat down on my couch, "that was the very last thing I expected to hear when I came to apologize."

I finally found my brain. "Apologize?" I asked, still stupefied, but not silent any longer. "You came to _apologize_ to me? For _what_?"

"Perhaps apologize is the wrong term. I think I had something more like groveling in mind."

"You were going to grovel," I stated. "Why?"

Carlisle shrugged, throwing his hands up as if even he didn't know. "Hell if I know why. But a beautiful woman kissed me tonight, a woman that I've admired for a long time, and I was stupid enough to question why she'd done it. When in the end, it shouldn't matter one way or the other."

"It matters. It should matter to you." I paused, not sure if I should continue. Esme Platt never would have continued in the past, but I had clearly left that role behind along with what was left of my dignity. "It matters to me," I told him softly.

I couldn't bear to look into his face any longer, because he was gazing at me with a mixture of amused affection and something both caring and terrifying. I wasn't used to people caring about me; I was comfortable and secure with ruling by fear. Love was a nearly foreign, incomprehensible emotion anymore.

"Esme. Look at me." I glanced up, obeying him even though I hadn't listened to anyone but my own mind for the last fifteen years. He was staring intently at me. "I know you're scared. This is a terrifying time. But if you ever want that private performance, know that all you need to do is come to my room and ask." He rose from the couch, and stopped next to me, brushing his fingertips over my cheek. I froze, his touch melting the thin ice of my composure. I hated how easy I was, but I leaned into his warm touch, relishing the feel of being cherished.

"Promise me you'll remember," he murmured as I raised my own hand to brush my fingers over his.

"I'll remember," I told him, and I knew that I would never be able to forget. Because I'd never been able to forget him.

But instead of kissing me again, the way I knew he wanted to—and the way I wanted him to—his fingers slipped from my cheek and he walked away from me, towards the doorway. He turned back, when he was almost out of the room. "Good, because I was always much better live. Goodnight, Esme."

I was left contemplating the ruins of my self-control and what the hell I was going to do with Carlisle. He wouldn't just _stay _in the neat little compartment I'd fruitlessly tried to relegate him to. Instead, he insisted on barging right through the walls—though _my _walls, and even through my doors—practically insisting that I notice him. As if I could possibly ignore him.

I switched off the music, annoyed that instead of it calming me, now all it did was remind me of Carlisle's dangerous, naughty offer that he play a private show for me. I would be stupid to take him up on it, I decided. Stupid wasn't even the right word; it would be _disastrous _of me if I did so.

I finished getting ready for bed, brushing my hair and washing my face, as if this was just every other night in the life of Esme Platt. And technically, it was. Except that my feelings had been sprung from their little cages, and they jumped around inside my skin until I didn't think it could possibly contain them anymore. Fifteen minutes later, I turned the light out and laid in bed, desperately wishing that Carlisle had never ever offered, because I knew, whether I went to him tonight or tomorrow or in six months, eventually I'd break down and ask. And for that, I decided that I had the right to be a little pissed. If he'd never put the idea in my head, I never would have considered it.

Okay, I thought as I turned over restlessly, that was a big fat lie. I'd thought about it. But I had never ever considered actually _doing _it until he'd made it perfectly clear that he'd be receptive.

More than receptive. He'd _invited _me.

I turned over again, and decided that it was highly unlikely that sleep of any form was happening in this bed tonight.

Sleep might have been impossible, but that didn't mean I had to give in quite so easily. About half a dozen times, I considered slipping out of bed and walking to Carlisle's room, metaphorically waving a white flag. But I didn't, and by the morning, when I finally climbed out of bed, and went downstairs after dressing, I was in a foul mood.

* * *

Whether my mood was terrible because of a lack of sleep or a lack of Carlisle was up for debate, but I wasn't sure it really mattered because regardless of why, I was still tired and I still wanted to bite everyone's heads off.

I sat down at the breakfast table, and poured myself a cup of coffee, praying it would be strong enough to counteract a little of the aching tiredness I felt. I stirred in a spoonful of Splenda and contemplated the fruit that Bridget had laid out.

So far I was alone, but that wouldn't last long. It was already past 8 and I knew Carlisle was an early riser. I just hoped that Renee or Alice or Rose would arrive before he did so that it wouldn't be just the two of us sharing breakfast. That seemed far too intimate and too much like we'd spend the night together, though we hadn't and the evidence of that lack was crawling under my skin nearly like a live, voracious entity. I forced my shoulders to relax, and I sat back, sipping my coffee. I needed to focus not on Carlisle the man, but on Carlisle the manager. He was here for a reason, and that was to get my son back.

Sure enough, Carlisle the manager walked into the breakfast room a minute later, wearing a pair of perfectly fitted dark gray trousers and a blue polo that did positively sinful things for his arms and for his equally blue eyes. I gulped my coffee, and tried to keep a studious, calm expression on my face. This was particularly difficult because there were a multitude of things I wanted to do right now—and none of them involved sitting a whole table away from him.

_Focus_, _Esme, focus_, I chanted to myself. _Think of Edward. Think of the Red Hands._ I glanced over at Carlisle's smiling face as he approached the table, and decided nothing less than the big guns was appropriate. _Think of Eoghan._

"Good morning," I told him, pleased that my voice sounded just as it ought. I might be a wreck, but outwardly, I was still the exact same Esme Platt.

"Morning," he said with another bright, blinding smile at me. "Did you sleep well?" He pulled out the chair next to mine, and I couldn't help tensing. He needed to stay on the _other _end of the table; was he trying to torture me?

"Wonderfully," I lied. "And you?"

I thought I saw an extra twinkle in those devastating eyes, but I looked away before I could make sure. That way, I told myself firmly, lay disaster. That way lay ruin. I needed to stay strong and in control. Just because I was trying to turn over a new Esme leaf didn't mean that he had to know he nearly had me eating out of the palm of his hand. A new Esme didn't necessarily mean a slutty Esme.

I had only ever been intimate with one man, and that had been so long ago, I'd thought all those feelings had withered and died inside of me, but with Carlisle's appearance, and then his kiss, they'd roared to annoying life. I decided that I'd liked them better dead.

They were neater and easier and altogether more helpful to my rapidly-fraying self-control.

"Oh, I slept well. A little music always puts me right to sleep." I couldn't miss his wink this time, it was practically staring me in the face. I swallowed hard and took another long sip of coffee, praying that it would do more than energize me. I needed it to remind me who I was and that I didn't have sexual affairs with unfairly-gorgeous ex-musicians who managed my son.

Son. Edward. Yes. I could still focus. Maybe.

"When does Marcus arrive?" I asked in a brisk business-like tone, needing us to change the subject to something more conducive to me not throwing myself at him and begging him to extinguish these annoying _feelings _he aroused in me.

"This morning," Carlisle answered, buttering a piece of toast. Helpless in the thrall of this stupidly beautiful man, I watched as his strong white teeth bit into the bread and I thought I might perhaps be losing my mind, because I'd never before wanted to be a piece of toast.

"Excellent," I said self-consciously, hoping he was _not _aware of my wayward thoughts—and what he was _not _wearing in them.

"Truthfully," I continued, "I'm dismayed at how little he seems to respect me. Hopefully he's more effective than he is respectful."

To my annoyance, Carlisle didn't seem upset at all by my words; instead, he seemed more amused than anything else. A smile tugged on the corner of his lips, and I found myself watching his alive, mobile face helplessly, as if I couldn't bear to look away. So much for playing it cool, I lectured to myself, he's going to know exactly how much you want him at this rate.

Except that he already knew. After all, he'd literally caught me listening to one of his old CD's last night. How much more transparent could I get?

"Unfortunately he's not been well-versed in the intricacies of your social structure," Carlisle told me, as he poured more coffee into his cup and then into my own. "I'm sure that once he arrives, and we have a meeting to get him up to speed on the kidnapping, you'll need to appraise him of certain. . ._facts, _regarding your position."

I thought he might be laughing at me. I wasn't entirely sure that he was wrong to. In the end, did it matter that this Marcus was familiar with the all the salient points regarding the social power that Esme Platt wielded? No. It only mattered that he returned my son to me.

"It doesn't matter," I sighed, "so that will be unnecessary. I just want him to be effective." He was right; my social influence failed when Edward was taken. I couldn't use any of it to get Edward back. At this point, the only tool I had was my money and the reckless ability I had to throw it at the problem until it was fixed .

"If you're sure," Carlisle said.

"I'm sure," I reassured him. "Marcus clearly doesn't care who I am, and in the end, it doesn't make much difference as long as Edward and Bella are safe."

Carlisle leaned back, his eyes growing a little wider with surprise. "Did I just hear Esme Platt say that her social stature doesn't matter?"

He _had _been poking fun at me. I supposed I deserved it, after all those years of superiority and patronizing, nasty comments about his background and his profession. I didn't like admitting it, but I'd been ridiculous at points. There was nothing like a true crisis of self to put everything into perspective.

"I deserved that," I admitted with a guilty smile. "And I'm sorry, for everything I said to you over the years. You've really done better with Edward; better than probably anyone else could. Better than me, at any rate."

"Until now." Carlisle regarded the fruit cup with a steady gaze, but I could see the anguish buried underneath. He still blamed himself, and maybe there was nothing I could do about that. Maybe there was nothing anyone could do about that, until Edward was back home safely.

"I know." I didn't want to agree with him, to let him think that I blamed him, but I couldn't exactly argue with him. It wasn't the right time to make him face the truth.

Bridget appeared at the doorway, her expression apprehensive. "There's a Marcus at the door, Ms. Platt. He says he's here to see you."

I exchanged confused glances with Carlisle. "I thought the car was picking him up at the airport," I said.

"I thought it was," Carlisle confirmed. "Well, clearly there was some form of miscommunication there."

"Bridget, show him in here. I'm sure he's hungry and will want breakfast."

Bridget gave a quick nod, and disappeared back through the doorway. Carlisle set his coffee cup on the table with a decisive click. "You don't have to say it," I said to him. "We're both thinking the same thing."

"He came so highly recommended," Carlisle said, and this time I could hear the anguished edge to his voice. He hid it well, but he was just as worried as I was about Edward. We had been banking everything on Marcus being the right person to find him, but what if he wasn't? The man couldn't even take simple directions on how to get from the airport to the house.

"It'll be fine," I soothed, reaching for his hand before I remembered that touching him was something I shouldn't be doing. I nearly grabbed my hand back, but before I could, he glanced down at my fingers on his skin, as if he couldn't believe what he was feeling, and then he looked at me with such gratitude and affection and desire that I couldn't bear to pull away.

It felt so amazing to be wanted again; was it any wonder that I was basking in the sensation instead of pushing him away from me? Except that I knew I was over-generalizing. Men had wanted me since Eoghan. I had just never felt any reciprocal feelings before now. And the reason I didn't want to let go of Carlisle's hand really had nothing to do with his feelings at all, and everything to do with my own.

We heard the footsteps long before Marcus appeared in the doorway. I felt an apprehensive jolt of dread, as they neared the breakfast nook, and no matter how weak it was, I gripped Carlisle's hand harder, like a lifeline that I wasn't willing to let go of.

And then, there he was, in the doorway. I couldn't help it. I simply gaped. _This _was the man who was supposed to save my son? I felt speechless and even more ill-prepared than I had the night before, when Carlisle had caught me listening to his music.

My fingers tightened on Carlisle's as I looked into the face of someone who looked like a GI Joe figurine come to life. His hair was shorn in the most precise crew cut I'd ever seen, and his camouflage pants were so flawlessly creased, I was fairly sure he'd ironed them this morning. As he took in his surroundings, the dark beady eyes darting around the room as if he was memorizing every stick of furniture and every exit, his expression remained absolutely stoic. Like he wasn't impressed at all. Which just set me on edge, though I knew it was incredibly stupid for his lack of appreciation for my interior decorating skills to annoy me.

"Good morning. You must be Marcus. I'm Carlisle Masen. Welcome to Hyannis Port." In a bizarre turn of events, Carlisle apparently remembered his manners better than me, because he stood, offering his hand to Marcus.

"Yes. Hello," Marcus said in clipped tones, as if he couldn't even be bothered with social niceties. And I supposed that he couldn't be; after all, he probably spent most of his spare time ironing his cargo pants.

"This is Edward's mother, Esme Platt," Carlisle said, turning to me. "She owns this house."

I thought this might be Carlisle's way to informing Marcus that proper respect was due, but then this man had already proved that he had very little respect for my position. Whether that lack of respect would extend to me personally remained to be seen. Honestly, I wasn't holding out much hope.

I stood slowly and extended my hand, determined to be the bigger person. I was the great Esme Platt, renowned hostess and society leader. Marcus was only an ex-military operative who'd taken one too many shots of testosterone.

"It's very nice to meet you," I lied. "Thank you for coming all the way to Hyannis Port to meet with Carlisle and I."

He didn't shake my hand, but instead left it hanging out there, unacknowledged. I bristled, it dropped back to my side. I'd never been treated so rudely, even by some of my society rivals who went out of their way to be awful.

Marcus turned to Carlisle, and though his expression had not unfrozen one iota, I was familiar enough with the masks people wore to understand that he thought I was a complete waste of air. To behave in such a way towards the money behind the operation was either excessively cocky or just stupid. I tried to figure out which as he spoke to the man next to me.

"This will be our base of operations," he said. "I'll need a room set aside for our command center. It will need two telephone lines and a connection to high speed internet."

I'd already foreseen this request, and had set aside one of the lounges for the purpose. I'd never believed that it would be needed for that purpose, but when I'd gutted and remodeled the house five years ago, I'd known it paid to be prepared. Now that was paying off. Marcus could be isolated in that room and I wouldn't ever need to interact with him.

I took a deep breath and reigned my temper in so it wouldn't be evident in my voice. "I've had a room set aside for your use. It should have everything you require, and if you need any additional supplies, you can let me know. Would you like some breakfast before I show you?"

Marcus turned towards me slowly, his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, as if he couldn't believe my persistence. "Breakfast?" he sneered, glancing at his watch—a high tech, stainless steel number that looked like the watch equivalent of a Swiss Army knife. "It's already oh-eight hundred hours."

As if people all over the world didn't eat breakfast at eight o'clock in the damn morning. I bit back the retort—after all, I hadn't achieved the position I had by saying any of the sarcastic comments that I thought with increasingly regularity. "We civilians don't feel the need to rise at the crack of dawn," I told him stiffly.

I felt Carlisle squeeze my hand, and I glanced down in surprise. I'd consciously forgotten we were even holding hands; the warm pressure of his skin on mine had faded to a reassuring glow in the back of my mind. He was warning me to behave myself, but I'd toed the line for so long, and this man—this _employee_—was wearing on my last nerve.

"I've already eaten," Marcus informed me, with patronizing patience.

I snapped, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and for too long. "I don't think you comprehend," I told him haughtily, with a voice that sounded as if it had just spend the last millennium in a deep freeze, "but I'm Esme Platt. I know this doesn't carry much weight with you, so I'll let you in on a little secret. When I ask you to sit down at my table and share a meal with me, you don't say no."

Carlisle's fingers tightened around mine, and I glanced over at him, to see a barely concealed smirk on his face. He might not be able to publically support my little war against Marcus, but he was definitely appreciating the show. As for me, I couldn't deny that I enjoyed a well-constructed, well-timed insult.

Marcus stared me down, his dark, beady eyes not blinking. I met his reptilian stare with one of my own, and gave myself a pat on the back when he broke first. Like they always do, I thought to myself. Men who thought women were weak had clearly never met a woman like myself.

"Fine," he said belligerently, sitting down in an empty chair across from Carlisle and I. "I suppose I could use a cup of coffee."

"Excellent," I said with false sincerity. Just half an hour ago, I'd wanted a third wheel so that this breakfast with Carlisle felt less like an intimate meal, but perhaps the last person I wanted in this capacity was Marcus, though he did fulfill the role admirably. After all, it was impossible for this to be a romantic meal when GI Joe was glowering from the other side of the table.

I was just pouring him a cup of coffee when Renee entered the room. She had just seen him when the possibilities struck me like a bolt of lightning. I had never even considered the prospect of Renee attaching herself to our resident ex-military operative, probably because I'd been too threatened by her obvious attraction to Carlisle, but considering her erstwhile husband, it was safe to say that Renee didn't have standards of which to speak of.

"Hello there," she trilled, her voice grating on my already . "I'm Renee Swan."

And of course, even though I'd known this would happen—had known it ever since Renee waltzed into the breakfast room, looking impossibly beautiful and at least ten years younger than she actually was—Marcus looked up at her and I saw that frigid expression melt like wax right off his face. I rolled my eyes. If he could have sunk lower in my estimation, the awestruck way he was looking at Renee now would do it.

"I'm Marcus," he told her, as she slid into the chair next to his.

From the way that Renee clasped her chest—where her heart should have been, if she hadn't had it surgically removed along with all the wrinkles on her face—I knew she was going to play up 'you're going to save my daughter' angle. She was nothing if not utterly predictable.

"My daughter, Isabella, was taken along with Edward. Of course, I warned her not to become involved in the whole music scene, but she never did listen to me."

I would have to be deaf, dumb and stupid to not catch the insinuation in Renee's tone. It appeared that she'd tired of playing along, and was ready to fight back. Normally, I would have enjoyed the challenge she'd issued, but suddenly I was sick and tired of playing cat and mouse and constantly being forced to fight off potential usurpers. As if they could ever be Esme Platt; even I couldn't be Esme Platt anymore.

I let go of Carlisle's hand and stood. "I have some business to tend to," I said frostily to the table at large. "Carlisle, you're aware of the arrangements I've made for Marcus. You're more than capable of showing him. I'd appreciate hourly reports on your progress."

I turned to go, and was nearly out of the room when Carlisle's phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through Renee's simpering giggles. I stopped only when I heard his words.

"_Emmett_. My god."

The cup I'd been cradling in my hands slipped from my numb grasp, and crashed onto the floor, shattering into a million shards of priceless porcelain. I was at Carlisle's side in an instant, my fingers gripping his arm like claws. I leaned down, suddenly not at all aware of the faint musk of his cologne or the unique scent of his skin, and I prayed feverishly that this was good news and not bad.

* * *

"You need to stop pacing," Carlisle told me, as I wore a pathway in the carpet in my office.

Objectively, I knew he was right. This was expensive, top-of-the-line carpeting—not that cost was something I typically worried about; I had more money than I could possibly spend in one lifetime—but the very act was a physical manifestation of just how much self-control I'd relinquished.

"You're not going to feel any worse if you sit down," he continued from his seat on the couch next to my desk. We were in my office, waiting—some of us more patiently than others—for Emmett's arrival.

"He didn't say anything to you? Anything else?" I asked, tensely, not returning to the chair I'd barely been able to occupy since the phone call that had changed everything.

"Esme," Carlisle said patiently, for what was probably the fiftieth time in the last hour, "you were standing right there, listening to the whole exchange. There's nothing he said that you didn't hear."

"Tell me again," I begged unashamedly. In the face of what had happened to my son, begging seemed like very small beans. I would do a lot more to see Edward returned to me safely.

"He apologized, first off. And then he told me that Edward and Bella were relatively unharmed, and that he'd escaped. And that he wanted to help us stage a rescue."

I let out a ragged breath that I hadn't known I was holding. "Relatively unharmed? What does he mean by 'relatively'?"

"I can't tell what he meant. Unfortunately he didn't explain himself. But he should be here soon, and then he explain it to both of us."

It seemed like an eternity since Carlisle had shut his cell phone off, but it had only been fifteen minutes, I realized with surprise as I glanced at the watch on my wrist. "You managed to peel Renee off Marcus and tell her to get Rosalie up?"

Carlisle nodded. "I did. I know you're in bad shape, but I think you're going to have to tell her. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can."

"I can do it," I told him through stiff, numb lips. "I think it's better that it comes from me anyway."

"I'll admit, I don't really understand what happened between them," Carlisle said.

I turned on my heel, facing him. I'd barely taken my eyes off the door since we'd come in here. And it wasn't Rose I was waiting for. "You don't? I thought you didn't miss a thing."

He shrugged. "I usually don't. But this came as a surprise. I thought Rose was in love with Edward. No matter how bad of an idea that was."

Usually, when Carlisle said something like this—basically implying that my son wasn't worth falling in love with, he apologized to me. But this time, there was no apology given and I didn't even want one. Edward, no matter what kind of danger he was in, hadn't deserved it. Did it make me a horrible mother to hope that this experience, no matter how terrifying, could maybe change his perspective on life? So much, I wanted him to be able to mature emotionally, to be able to give as well as take. To maybe fall in love someday, with a woman who would make him want to be a better man.

"I'm surprised you didn't realize how Emmett felt about her. I only saw the two of them together twice, and I thought it was rather obvious." I also remembered feeling, at the time, that Emmett was clearly wishful thinking if he ever thought he could compete with Edward—even if Edward was a misogynist who openly cheated on Rosalie. Edward, for all his inabilities to emotionally connect with people, seemed to hold a fascination for them. He could draw women in with just his magnetic appeal, and then leave them in thrall as long as he wished.

The door opened and I jumped, my heart in my throat, as Rose's blonde head appeared. "Esme, Renee said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Come in, Rose," I said, trying to find a calm tone of voice I could use to tell her. But it was a useless exercise; I wasn't even close to calm and I couldn't pretend any longer.

Her blue eyes grew troubled as she walked in, impossibly beautiful and young in jeans and a simple white t-shirt. My hands trembled as I clasped them together. "Carlisle had a phone call this morning, when we were eating breakfast. It was Emmett."

I saw her jaw tighten, and her eyes grow glassy, but Rosalie had grown up in the spotlight, and she was very good at presenting a composed front to the world.

"Emmett?" she asked in a very small voice. "He called?"

I nodded. "He's coming here. He managed to escape the Red Hands, apparently, and is going to help us rescue Edward and Bella."

I had to admit, she took it a lot better than I did. Of course, I'd been carrying a cup of coffee, which I'd proceeded to shatter all over the floor. Rosalie's hands were empty, so there was no telling if she would have dropped something. As it was, her long legs just kind of gave out and she collapsed gracefully onto the couch, next to Carlisle.

"They're alright?" she asked.

"According to Emmett, they're 'relatively' okay," I told her, giving Carlisle a quick look as I said it. He could have asked Emmett what relatively meant, and he hadn't. I didn't want to wait to find out what it meant. I wanted to know _now_.

"Good," she said softly, and her eyes were a mix of confusion and relief and worry. If I hadn't known how she felt about Emmett, I knew now. She might not realize it yet, but she was in love with him. Maybe she had been for a longer time than any of us knew. Maybe Emmett hadn't been insane for thinking that they could be together. Weirder things, after all, had happened.

As if to prove my point, my own gaze shifted to the man next to Rose, and I felt another little piece of the puzzle shift into impossible place. "Are you alright?" I asked her, ignoring the way that my heart clamored with jealousy at how easily Carlisle slipped his arm around her and she burrowed into his shoulder. Even though I knew there was absolutely nothing between them—Rose was like the daughter that Carlisle had never had—I irrationally wanted to be the one he was comforting.

Of course, if he hadn't thought he'd get frozen out, he probably would have tried. In the end, I thought fatalistically, I couldn't help but push him away. It was the way I was constructed. Or it had been, ever since I'd reconstructed myself after Eoghan and that disaster.

"So now all we have to do is wait," I said to the room in general. "Because I'm so good at that."

"You really need to sit down," Carlisle said, echoing his sentiments from earlier. "I told you, pacing isn't going to get him here any faster."

I wondered if he was referring to Edward or Emmett, and decided as I forced myself to sit in my desk chair, that maybe he was referring to both of them, and that he didn't need me to remind him that there was no way I could possibly rest easy until my son was returned to me.

We didn't have to wait very long. Two tense hours later, the door opened again, and it was Emmett.

He stood there, his clothes dirty and travel-rumpled, and his eyes repentant, and I thought for a split second, that he was waiting for us to pass judgment on him, on what he had done to my family.

Then Rose was off the couch and she had flung herself into his arms. He was so taken aback by her sudden reaction, that the weight of her body nearly toppled them both over, before he steadied himself with a hand on the door.

As I watched Rose and Emmett, their arms wrapped around each other, giving and taking love and affection and forgiveness, I couldn't help but glance over at Carlisle. He was staring at me, too, his expression utterly inscrutable.

I had to look away, before he was able to read everything I felt in my thoughts; all the impossible sacrifices I had made, every way I had betrayed my own feelings, and the desperation I felt to be with me, for him to feel and know the real Esme.

Finally, Rose pulled away from Emmett, though her arm looped around his waist, as if she couldn't bear to let him go. They walked over to where I sat, and I tried to swallow back the sudden tears as he looked at me with those guilty dark blue eyes. "Esme, I'm so sorry. I betrayed you. I betrayed Carlisle. . ." he started in, but I interrupted him. There was no point in going over every way that he had broken our trust. He was here now, and he wanted to help us. That was enough for me, and I had a feeling that it would be enough for Carlisle too.

"Just tell me how Edward is. How they are," I begged. "And for the love of god, what you meant by 'relatively' unharmed."

"They're physically fine," Emmett explained. "Perhaps a bit mentally battered. But mostly fine."

"Thank god," I said, relief flooding my system, causing the tears I'd been holding in check to finally overflow, as I reached out to grip Emmett's hands. "Thank you."

He gripped them tightly, and I knew then he would do just about anything to get my son back to me. His sense of honor was strong, regardless of what he had done, and I found myself forgiving him.

"I'll take you to Marcus. We'll need to make some plans," Carlisle said, breaking the moment. Esme, will you be alright?"

Concern was shadowing Carlisle's face, and I knew he was worried about me, worried because he knew that it took extreme emotional trauma to cause me to break down in tears, but I waved him away with a forced, watery smile. "I'll be fine. Or I will be when you're able to get to Edward and Bella. That's the number one priority right now; not me."

"I'll stay with her," Rose announced. "And Alice should be here any minute."

"Renee is telling her about Bella and the rescue," I said. "But yes, I'd appreciate that, Rose. I don't feel much like being alone right now."

"Of course you don't want to be alone," she said, taking my hand from Emmett's, and pulling me to my feet. "I know just the thing to keep you occupied."

* * *

I spent the afternoon by the pool with Alice and Rosalie. Their youthful energy and passion for their new joint project kept me distracted, and for that I was grateful. It had been a long, long time since I'd ever passed away such an idle afternoon, lying by the pool, soaking up the sun, and sipping fruity drinks topped with frilly pink umbrellas.

It was a surprisingly lighthearted afternoon, but I saw a shadow pass over Rose's face more than once and I knew she was worrying about Emmett and what would happen between them. I almost asked her how she felt about Emmett's abrupt departure and if she felt she could forgive him for not confiding his troubles to her, but there was something haunted in her eyes that made me not mention it. Alice too, glanced over at the house more than once, and I knew she, like me, was desperately curious for news.

If I hadn't needed the distraction so desperately, I would have felt guilty at how little I'd managed to accomplish, at how much I'd enjoyed Alice and Rose's laughter and their conversation while Edward and Bella languished in a dark room in some house up north.

But I refused to let the guilt creep in. Guilt and shame had ruled so much of my life, both before and after Eoghan, and I was sick to death of letting them control my life. I was in control now, and I refused to feel bad that instead of worrying myself sick over Edward—which I had been doing for years now—I was actually having a pleasant afternoon. I'd already done everything I could to save him; the rest was up to Emmett, Carlisle and Marcus.

That particular fact was driven home when, sometime later the afternoon, after the sun had begin to sink low over the trees, when a shadow passed over my inert body, and I opened my eyes to see Carlisle standing over me, and Alice and Rosalie gone.

I forced myself not to grab for my swimsuit cover-up. If Carlisle wanted to stare at my body, then who was I to stop him? Yes, it was a two piece suit, but it did cover all the necessary parts—after all, Esme Platt would never wear a bathing suit that was indecent.

"Yes?" I asked, sitting up, and casually reaching for the filmy white cover-up, wrapping it around my body. "Do you have news?"

He'd sent text messages to my phone every hour, as I'd requested, but there'd been very little progress to report. Mostly he'd stated that they were working on a rescue plan with the information that Emmett was able to provide and the resources Marcus had gathered.

Apparently, Carlisle's presence was the evidence that the plan had been formed, and it was now time to inform me how they were going to rescue my son and Bella Swan.

"More than news," Carlisle said, sitting on the lounge chair opposite mine. He rested his elbows on his bent knees. "We have a plan that we'll be executing tomorrow morning."

He looked tired, I thought, as I slipped my sunglasses up, the dark circles underneath his eyes evidence of the stress and the strain he'd been under since Edward had been taken. I never should have kissed him, I told myself for millionth time since I'd done it, I should have left him alone. He had enough cares to worry about right now, without me adding to them. Except that right now, I wanted to do more than kiss him, more than simply wipe away all the strain on his face—I wanted to turn his world inside out and show him just how much I wanted him. I wanted to go to him and tell him that it was _him _I wanted. I didn't care about showing Renee up anymore; I didn't care about staking my claim. As if there would be any question of him ever showing even the remotest interest in Renee Swan. Despite all the comments I'd made about him over the years, I knew Carlisle was classy to the marrow of his bones. I never would have let him manage Edward otherwise.

"Tomorrow morning," I repeated, desperately trying to ignore the jumpy way my nerves reacted to the news. I should be thrilled that it was happening so soon, but all I felt was a horrible gnawing fear and anxiety that the rescuers would find something other than Edward and Bella, alive and well.

Carlisle nodded. "I assume you're going with them," I said, more to break the silence than to extract information from him. I knew he would go; there would be nothing that could ever keep him away. Eoghan might have been his biological father, but Carlisle was the father who was there every day. The father who refused to give up on him even when none of us were even sure there was a redeemable cell in his body.

"You know I am," he said, in a gently chiding voice—as if he knew I was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"I know," I told him awkwardly, toying with my sunglasses, suddenly aware that I was not wearing nearly enough clothes. The hot, edgy feeling was back underneath my too-tight skin, and I wanted to see what would happen if he tried unleash it. But that, I told myself firmly, was completely off-limits. There were times and places for that, even if I was to do it, and this definitely was not one of those.

"Emmett feels awful," Carlisle added. "You were right. There won't be any charges. I wouldn't hear of them, and he says that Edward doesn't seem that angry."

I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to cry as I thought of my son and how much he'd wanted to know the men who'd worked so closely with his father. "He was probably glad," I said. "That would be like Edward."

Unspoken between us was the fact that Edward, once he got to know the people who'd taken him, probably couldn't wait to get far enough away from them. I'd felt the same way as Edward once upon a time; I'd been absolutely fascinated with the Red Hands at first, when Eoghan had finally told me what they stood for and fought for, but as I'd grown closer to him, I'd realized that while their intentions might have been pure at first, they'd become tangled and corrupted. The Red Hands might pretend to be freedom fighters, but at base, they were dangerous criminal masterminds who ultimately cared more about themselves than Ireland's freedom. I'd never wanted to tell Edward this fact, because he'd placed his father on such a noble pedestal, and I didn't think he'd ever have an opportunity to learn differently.

"Well he's learned the truth now," Carlisle said softly, "and from what Emmett said, it seems like he's doing alright coming to terms with it. Maybe this whole experience will teach him something he's been needing to learn for years. Maybe, you and him will finally be able to mend that fence I've been trying to help you build."

For a moment, I almost made a disparaging remark about any kind of real reconciliation being impossible—a rote answer that I'd started using because it hurt too much to hope for something I knew wasn't going to happen any time soon—but then I decided that I'd been taking the easy way out for too long. It was going to happen this time, I decided, because the worst possible thing had happened to the two of us, and God willing, Edward was going to come home safely. We were finally going to put all the stupid disagreements behind us, because I wasn't going to take no for an answer anymore. We would work it out because I was Edward's mother and he was my son, and I couldn't bear any more of this animosity between us.

"Yes," I told Carlisle decisively. "And I don't hope. Now he'll know what I know—everything that I know. And that will change everything."

"Good," he said softly, reaching out to take my hand. "Nobody is more glad than me to hear it. I know you've both hurt over this."

If I was to believe his expression, he'd hurt too over it—he'd hurt because I hurt. Which seemed wildly improbable. Maybe, he was just madly empathetic.

Or maybe, I thought, it was something else entirely.

"Are you hungry?" he asked me, breaking the silence that had fallen between us, as I looked out across the tranquil blue of the pool. "It's nearly dinnertime."

"I can have Bridget whip something up," I began to say, but Carlisle cut me off.

"Alice and Renee went into town. Emmett and Rose are cloistered off somewhere. Marcus is making extra preparations, and I think his soul might shrivel from more contact with the infamous Ice Queen of Hyannis Port."

"Oh," I said awkwardly. "So that leaves me and you."

He nodded, and I wondered how long I'd be able to be with him, in the same room, before I told him that he was right, that he needed to give me a private performance. I decided eating dinner alone with him would be a very bad idea that would only end in disaster.

"I'm sorry," I said as apologetically as I could muster, "but I have some things I need to tend to. Would you mind terribly if you were on your own for dinner? I'll have Bridget make you something."

Carlisle shrugged. "Not a problem," he said casually, but I swore I could see the truth in those blue eyes of his. He knew why I'd turned him down, and just how terrified I was. My pride smarted, but I couldn't change my mind now. I'd made my bed, now I'd just have to lie in it.

I rose to my feet, wrapping the cover-up tighter around my body. "If I don't see you before tomorrow," I said, far too aware that I was taking the cowardly path right now, "good luck. And be safe."

Carlisle gripped my hand for a beat longer, before letting it go. I knew he didn't want to, and deep down, I didn't want him to, but the Esme that I'd been for twenty years was too loud and too persistent to be ignored. I couldn't do this; not right now, and not with him. Never with him.

"I'll keep you updated."

"Excellent. Well, goodnight then." And I walked away, far too aware that his eyes were following me the whole way back into the house, and that my cover-up was far too translucent. Of course, it could have been made of black wool, and I don't think it could have shielded me effectively enough right then.

I was weakening, he was weakening, and we both knew it. Thank god this was about to come to an end, because I was at the very last bit of my self-control, and I didn't know how much longer I could hold onto it with him so near.

I hid like a coward in my suite, calling down to Bridget to ask her to bring up a green salad and half a sandwich for dinner. While she was arranging the tray on the small table in my room, I was weak enough to give in and ask her what Carlisle had ended up doing for dinner.

"I made him a sandwich too, Ms. Esme," Bridget informed me, and I thought she might have given me a funny look. I told myself that as the hostess, it was my job to make sure that everyone staying here was well taken care of and fed. Except that taking care of Carlisle didn't feel like a _job_—it felt like something I wanted to do, so he was happy and the worry lines in his forehead eased.

"Excellent," I said dismissively, as if could care less what Carlisle had been up to tonight.

I told myself this over and over, as I sat reading on my private balcony, the late spring air balmy and sweet as dusk fell. But I couldn't concentrate on the words, and after the tenth time reading the same paragraph, I finally shut the book shut with a frustrated groan.

I tried the television next, which was a medium I rarely resorted to, but I felt so anxious and high-strung that I thought it might help me. It didn't. I flipped through the entire range of channels twice, seeing a few programs I'd be interested in watching, but I couldn't stay focused on any single one for more than five minutes.

I was in agony by the time I shut the TV off. That was the only reason, I told myself, that I was resorting to the last thing; the thing that had never failed me. I pulled the CD out of its hiding place in the drawer and turned the sound system on. Carlisle's calming voice spilled out of the speakers, and I leaned back on the couch, willing the music to bewitch and relax me the way it always did.

But tonight, it didn't work. Instead, to my frustration, it only highlighted how much I wanted to talk to him, to let him reassure me, to _touch _him. To let him touch me.

_But if you ever want that private performance, know that all you need to do is come to my room and ask._

Remember, he'd ordered me, and even made me promise that I would. As if I could forget.

He'd known that a time would come when I would only be able to remember, and I would do just about anything to forget what had transpired between us. If I was being brutally honest, it was the invisible thread that wove us together tighter and tighter—each word, each action, the _kiss—_that was making it impossible for me to forget. The promise was secondary, and it wouldn't have mattered if I'd never made it. I couldn't have forgotten him, and the way he made me feel.

I slumped back on the couch, feeling the sting of defeat. I'd fought long and hard against this, but in the end, it was inevitable. I'd always known, in some dark corner of my mind, that it would end with me giving in.

Once I admitted defeat, I felt numb, and feeling didn't intrude again until I was standing outside his door, my hand poised over the wood.

Panic rushed in and my heart beat erratically, until I was sure he could hear it through the thick door. I felt lightheaded, and I couldn't seem to get enough air in my lungs, but I knocked anyway.

The moment the door opened I discovered that there was someone else inside of me. Another Esme; an Esme who could face this unbearably handsome man, look him in the eye and tell him exactly what I was here for—as if he didn't know.

"Esme, hello," he said with surprise. He clearly hadn't thought I'd do it. That made two of us.

"Carlisle," I said breathlessly, my voice low and husky, the _other _Esme's voice. "I couldn't sleep. Too anxious. And . . .you did promise me. A private performance."

He regarded me levelly for a moment, as if he was gauging whether I was really asking what he thought I was, before he took my hand and pulled me into the room. The door shut behind me and he stared at me again. I wondered if he wanted me to change my mind. I wondered if _he _wanted to change his mind. But I didn't get a chance to do so, or even to ask him, because he kissed me hard, pinning me against the door as his lips moved against mine.

His hands slid up my arms, his fingers soft and tender, and I shuddered as they traced the sensitive skin on my collarbone. The tip of his tongue touched mine, and I felt never felt weaker and yet so powerful. Like I could bring both him and me to my knees at the same time.

"Esme," he murmured against my lips like was an incantation, "tell me this is okay. Tell me you're sure."

I didn't trust my voice to tell him. I wasn't sure that old Esme wouldn't find a way to say the words that neither of us wanted to hear. So I showed him with my lips and my tongue and my hands, exploring the ridges and planes of the back that I'd so admired in the clothes I'd bought for him. It was only then that I understood what had even driven that; I'd selfishly wanted to claim him, to mark him as my own, even if I was too afraid to actually admit it to myself. But I'd craved him—his vitality, his strength, his compassion. Things that I'd tried for so long to extinguish in myself in my role as the Ice Queen: the role that Carlisle had never truly believed.

"Love me," I gasped out as his teeth found the path his fingers that traveled. "Please. Make me alive."

He pulled back then, and I was almost too caught up in the moment to see the shock and the desire in his eyes at my words. His hands still on my body, and he simply stared at me.

Then the dam broke, and he lifted me in his arms, as if I weighed nothing more than a twig or a bouquet of flowers, and he buried his face in my neck as he carried me to the bed. "Yes," I heard him groan into the curve of my skin, "_yes_."

Carlisle never gave old Esme a chance to resurface, as he deposited me on bed gently, with such tender care that I felt the rise of semi-hysterical tears fill my throat. But I wasn't scared or worried or afraid that I'd disappoint him, not the way I'd been my first time with Eoghan. Of course, that had been the very first time ever, but even it hadn't been, I knew I would have still been terrified. Eoghan had been such a big brute of a man, huge and brawny and unaware of his own strength. Carlisle cradled me tenderly, his fingers stroking my skin, peeling away my clothing gently yet insistently. He would lose himself with me, but never so much that he could forget about my safety. To him, I thought with sudden clarity, that was all that mattered.

"You're beautiful," he whispered along the curve of my breast, the shallow rise of my ribcage, the velvet skin of my inner thigh. "Lovely. Exquisite. _Perfect_." And I believed him, even if I'd never believed a man since Eoghan. There was a ring of truth in his words and in his eyes, and in the way he touched me. I could _feel _his honesty with a certainty that I thought I'd lost in a world made of shades of gray.

We fit together as if we'd been made for each other, and it seemed mystifyingly right to see my hair sweep along his skin as I settled on top of him, and sank down on his length, breathless and desperate for him. Nothing had ever felt more right than him inside me, and as he pulled me under him, driving us higher, I knew if I was smarter, I would have been scared. I _should _have been scared of him.

But I wasn't, and I let myself go with him in a way that I never had with the father of my child. I wanted things and took them like they were mine for the taking, and with a final thrust, the world exploded into a million brilliant shards, reflecting the intense blue of Carlisle's eyes.

I wasn't scared until after, until old Esme began to creep back inside of me. Until he pulled me against him, the naked lengths of our bodies damply clinging together, and I felt a sick knot of something begin to form in my stomach. I didn't regret it, exactly, because it had felt too good to wish I hadn't done it, but I couldn't help the fear. The fear that I had followed my heart and yet again, I'd made a mistake.

"Thank you," Carlisle said, pressing a single kiss on my bare shoulder. They were the first words he'd spoken since I'd asked him to love me. I remembered his acquiescence and I hoped he realized that I'd meant the word as a verb—and not as something else entirely.

I should get up now, and tell him so, the old Esme demanded. Clear the air. Make sure he understood that what had just happened was simply physical, the result of too much sexual tension over an unbearably long stretch of time, but I didn't want to move. I was too tired, or I didn't want to leave his arms. Either one, I pushed old Esme's concerns to the side, and promised myself that if he showed any emotional inclination towards me whatsoever that I would have the conversation. But there was no need to have it now. That would only ruin the mood and the lovely night.

Night had fallen, and moonlight streamed into the room, wrapping our bodies in silver ribbons. "I should be thanking you," I said after the long silence. "It's been too long."

"I know," he said, and I was surprised to hear amusement in his voice.

"That's funny?" I asked, in faux-annoyance. I was honestly too relaxed to even consider being annoyed right now. He'd unwound me like a top, until there was nothing left of my anxiety.

"Not really. I'm just. . . .still reeling, I guess. From you showing up at all."

"You did offer," I said, giggling, wrapping my hand around his unusually defined bicep. "You said you'd give me a private performance any time I asked."

He groaned. "Don't remind me. That was such a cheesy line. After I said it, I kicked myself for hours."

"I thought it was cute." And sexy, I mentally added. As if he didn't already know just how sexy I found him.

"I hoped you would," he said, and the aching hope in his voice sent a whole host of warning bells off in my head, but I found that even their clamoring wasn't enough to send me away. Instead, I gripped him tighter in my arms.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" I asked. What was occurring tomorrow hung inevitably between us, and I decided it would just be better to face it head on.

"Yes," he said softly. "But I have to have faith. Faith that we'll find him and Bella, and that they'll be alright."

He'd dismantled me, one bit of my mask at a time, and so I let him see everything; more than even he'd seen when he undressed me. "Your faith, it gives me faith. I wouldn't have it if you didn't have yours," I whispered into the warm skin of his arm. "So please, don't lose it."

I almost didn't hear his words, because he said them so quietly. I wasn't even sure he meant me to hear them. "Then, I'll keep it safe. For you."

"Good," I murmured, as my eyes drifted shut.

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**AN: Yes, that was over 10,000 words. Don't I deserve some major kudos for that beaut of a chapter? I think so.**

**Next two chapters are ExB-and the title of the next chapter is "The Patron Saint of Lost Causes."**


	21. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes

**AN: I'm not going to lie; this is the hardest chapter of fanfiction that I've ever written. I cried a lot, and there was more than once I didn't think I could actually do it-but I did, and so please, I ask you, be gentle. I'm in a fragile kind of state. Not that anyone is reading this who can't handle the angst, but I think we're reaching new depths with this chapter. However, there is a bit of a surprise in here. . .a scene that I think you've all been waiting for :)**

**Playlist updated.**

**Thanks go to JosieSwan, my beta, who was an unbelievable handholder through this, and Izzzy, my pre-reader.**

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**Chapter 20: The Patron Saint of Lost Causes**

**Bella**

"What happened? Are you alright?" I felt nearly lightheaded with relief as my hand caught Edward, and as I pulled him to his feet, he seemed more flustered than physically hurt. The last half an hour, while I'd sat alone in the cell -the bones and the flesh of my face aching with the force of Jane's blow- had been the worst so far because not only had I been forced into contemplating what had just happened to me; I'd had to think of the consequences of what could happen to Edward.

I'd lied to him before. That I didn't want him to save me wasn't only because it was ultimately my fault I'd gotten myself in here—or even because I didn't want him to take care of me like a helpless female.

The truth was, I couldn't bear the thought of him hurt or suffering. I was just beginning to understand why Edward was the way he was, and instead of holding onto my resentment for all the little cruelties, I only wanted to wrap my arms around him and leech away all those years of hurt and anger and bitterness.

"I'm fine," Edward said with a sigh as he collapsed onto the cot next to me. "Really."

"What happened?" I asked again.

He didn't answer right away, and as the silence stretched out between us, I knew whatever it was, it had been bad. Maybe not physical injury-bad, but bad enough that he didn't want to tell me.

"Emmett's gone," he finally said. "They went to search for him."

I felt suddenly and instantly nauseous, as if the peanut butter I'd only picked at had been rotten. Edward didn't need to elaborate on his statement for me to know that the one shred of hope that we'd had for getting out of here was now gone. We were officially stuck, completely at the mercy of the insane Aro and his even more psychotic handmaiden, Jane. And even though I only thought her name briefly, my mind sliding over her as quickly as I could, I couldn't help the shudder that went through me. If I'd been scared of her before, I was now fucking terrified of what she could do to me, and to Edward.

"And that's not the worst of it," Edward continued, his voice heavy and devoid of hope. "Niall told me that when they return, I'm to give him my answer about joining the Red Hands."

There was a dull roaring in my ears, and I knew this was it. There would be no turning back from the fate that was closing, like a noose, around our necks.

"Oh," I managed to croak out through my suddenly tight throat. I didn't know what else to say; what else _was _there to say? We could talk about our options until we were blue in the face, but in the end, there were only two:

Edward told Aro that he would join. He would probably do everything in his limited bargaining power to make sure that I got out as safely as possible. It was far from guaranteed, but it was foolish for me to ignore that this was my best possible scenario.

Edward told Aro that he wouldn't join the Red Hands. They'd probably kill him—after all he knew far too much now—and they'd likely kill me while they were at it.

"You know what I have to do," he said, interrupting my frantic searching for a third possibility. There was none, and so he was right; we both knew what he had to do.

"Yes," I croaked. My throat had tightened even further, as if it could already feel the noose.

"I know you hate it," he said bleakly, "and I have to admit I don't like it either, but there's no other options, Bella. You have to let me do this. I swear to you, I'll use every advantage I have to make sure you get out safely."

"Thank you," I told him softly. "I . . .I . . ." I paused, and then stopped completely. What could I possibly say to convey how much I appreciated his selfless action? There was nothing I could say, so I didn't say it. I figured that we were both nearly at our breaking point as it was, and there was no need to push us any further.

We were both silent for awhile longer. Finally, I asked the one thing that was left on my mind. "Do you think Emmett just escaped? Or do you think he went for help?"

"Does it even matter, Bella?" I wanted to cry at the darkness in Edward's voice, but there was no point in tears. Crying would only make it all worse.

"It matters," I insisted stubbornly. Emmett had cared for Edward, even though he had brought him to this place. I wanted to believe—I _needed _to believe, I decided—that he had done the only thing he could do to get us help, which was to bring it to us. "He wouldn't betray you."

This was only the position that Edward had been insisting was true during our entire incarceration, and I expected, stupidly, that he would agree with me. Except that things had disintegrated even farther than I'd thought, and Edward snapped at me instead.

"When are you going to get it?" he sneered. "Emmett's abandoned us, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. We're fucking doomed, Bella. I can't even guarantee that I can get you out. I can't do _anything_."

I wanted to give up, but giving up was too easy. If Edward couldn't fight anymore, then I would have to keep some sort of faith so that I could convince him to keep going. "This whole time, you've believed in Emmett. Even when I told you that it was ludicrous to believe in someone who betrayed you. But what if he didn't betray you this time? What if he went to get help? We owe it to him, because of what he risked to do this, to hold on a little while longer and stall. Give him the time he needs."

I thought at first that Edward had just chosen not to respond to me, and I felt a little annoyed that I'd put all this effort into a speech that he wasn't even going to take seriously, but then I heard something, a kind of gasping noise, that made me change my mind.

I scooted closer to Edward, who was sitting with his head resting on his hands, and then I realized that the sound had come from him. Edward was crying.

As if I'd needed any more evidence that there was so many unplumbed depths to this man, here was inarguable evidence that he was better than the image he presented to the world; better, even, than he himself believed he was. I wished that Esme -who was apparently so convinced that her son was simply a hardened, jaded rock star that she refused even to share the same last name- could see her son now. But more than that, I wanted her to see the lengths he was prepared to go to to save me.

I swallowed my own sob, and wrapped my arms around him. Right now, he needed me a lot more than I needed him. In the end, it would be his sacrifice, his life on the line, and I was resolutely determined to do anything I could to comfort him when his need was greatest. "It's alright," I murmured, bending down so he could hear me, and rubbing his back. "Everything will be okay."

I knew far too well that the well of reserve hope I was drawing on to tell him this was running alarmingly low, but I couldn't tell him anything else. Not with him shaking underneath my hands. One of us had to have some form of positivity left, and at this point, I was fairly certain that person was going to have to be me.

After what might have been only minutes, or could have been hours, he finally grew still. He raised his head, and his face looked more ravaged than I'd ever seen it after nights of booze and women. Red rimmed his eyes, and his cheeks were still damp, though I could tell he'd done what he could to erase the evidence. Not that I would have ever judged him for the emotion—on the contrary, in fact. I respected him so much more for humanity he was showing me right now than I ever had for the tough as nails musician front he'd tried so hard to preserve.

"Feel better?" I asked, not moving, even though I was plastered all over him. Touching him helped me keep the fear at bay, and I didn't want to let go. Besides, he'd had his hands all over me only a few hours before; it seemed silly to try to preserve things like physical distance at this point.

Edward nodded, and he turned his face away, like he wanted to hide the rest of the evidence, even in the really dim light, but I reached out and turned it back, my hand sliding down his cheek. "No," I said unsteadily. "Don't. You're scared. I'm scared too. There's no point in hiding it anymore."

"You don't get it," he said again, his voice so raw it physically _hurt _to listen to it, but I did, because I was in his debt and I'd never be able to forget it. "I . . .I've never _not _hidden. That's what I do." He held up his hands as if he could physically pull the explanation out of the thin air and hand it to me. "I . . .I can't do anything else. I don't know _how_."

I couldn't speak. So I just pulled him closer, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder, and simply listened. "Bella, just tell me how," he whispered, his voice raw.

"You're not hiding now," I reassured him. "I won't let you."

He laughed now, a semi-hysterical little giggle brought on not by too much sugar, but by too much emotion. "Why do you think I hated your guts at first?"

"Because I wasn't going to take any of your shit," I said, joining in with a giggle of my own.

"And thank god for that. Bella?" he paused, and I pulled away, looking up into his suddenly serious expression.

"What? Is everything alright?"

"I want to give you something," he told me haltingly. "Something that I haven't given anyone else before."

"Damn it," I half-joked, "that means no sex for me from the great Edward Cullen."

A smile broke over his features, and I loved seeing the sun emerge from behind the clouds. In all the years of following Athair, I'd never once seen him smile like he was right now. At me. Bella Swan.

"There's time enough for that," he said in a teasing voice. "But I'm being serious here. There's something you should know. Something nobody else, except Esme, knows. Carlisle doesn't even know."

"Tell me," I said, not feeling guilty at all about the possessive way that I clung to his torso. I felt greedy for that part of Edward that nobody else had ever touched; I wanted to be the one and only, and the fear that he'd hurt me in the end was swept away in a sudden avalanche of need and maybe a little love.

"You know my real name isn't Edward. It's been my name since Esme and I came back to America. I was two years old, and for a long time I didn't even remember what it was. But when I was 18, I forced Esme to tell me what she knew about my father, and what my real name is."

"You'd trust me with that?" I asked, stunned that he'd be willing to make this kind of overture. The rock star persona that he'd occupied for so long seemed to have fallen away in scaly layers, as if he was shedding his skin, and I couldn't lie, I liked what was underneath it so much more than was safe.

"I don't think you understand. I wouldn't have . . ._made _it, in here, without you. You kept me sane, Bella. And I didn't think anyone could do that."

"So tell me already, Cullen," I whispered, awed by his revelation.

"It's Finn," he said awkwardly, and I noticed that he didn't say 'My name is Finn.' He clearly didn't feel comfortable with calling himself that, and yet he'd told me regardless.

"Finn." I tested the name out on my lips, and it felt strange. Edward had been Edward to me for so long that I didn't know how to equate the man that I knew with _Finn_. "It doesn't sound like you," I finally admitted.

"I know," he sighed. "I've been Edward for too long. It's who I am. I'm not sure I could ever really be Finn again. Or if I ever could have been."

And I understood; maybe better than he realized. "My dad called me Isabella," I confessed, my voice thick. "My mom still calls me Isabella, but I hate it, because it doesn't seem right, her using it. I. . ." I cleared my throat, hating the sudden influx of tears, "I hate it because it makes me think of him, and that always makes me wish that he hadn't died." _And left me all alone,_ I thought.

"So, does that mean when I called you Brit Bitch, that wasn't the worst thing I could come up with?" Edward's smile was more than a little bittersweet, and I couldn't help a little watery laugh of my own. "It's not much," he continued, "and I don't think of myself as Finn, but it's more than anyone else has. And you deserve that, Bella Swan."

The conversation felt final, like a drawn-out, protracted goodbye. I should be glad that I was theoretically getting out of here, but I felt strangely divided on the prospect. Leaning my head against Edward's chest, I realized that I would miss him. It had only been a handful of days since I'd figured out I didn't hate him, but even in that short amount of time, I'd grown more attached to him than was safe. No matter how sad it was, I decided, it was better that we were going to part ways. Any more time together, and I was probably going to mistake Edward's slowly-revealed humanity for something else entirely.

He'd said he wanted to give me something he hadn't given to anyone else—but that something wasn't going to be love. Edward Cullen, no matter what he'd shown to me in the last few days, would never volunteer his heart. His name was all I was going to get, and I'd have to be satisfied with that.

"Thank you," I whispered in the cotton of his t-shirt. Sometimes the simple words said it the best; how could I possibly thank him for what he was going to do for me? Words themselves couldn't convey my gratitude, and without even thinking, or rather, _overthinking_, I reached up and let my fingers slide through the strands of his hair. Edward went still, and I knew from the way he tensed under my touch what was about to happen. In the end, I decided, it had been inevitable. I should have always known that I'd sleep with Edward Cullen.

_Who the fuck are you?_

At least, I thought more than a little fatalistically, I was doing it on my terms.

_Hi. I'm Bella._

He knew my name. He actually _liked _me. He wasn't drunk or distracted. All of the above, I knew, would have to be enough for me. I'd never been the sort of girl who slept around, but as Edward lowered his head to kiss me, I decided that it didn't matter. Regardless of who I'd been before this experience, I was irrevocably altered because of it, and because of Edward. It was fitting then, that I do the thing that I never would have done before with the man who had changed everything.

We kissed, and I couldn't help but remember that first time I'd met him. Up until this, I'd cherished the first time I'd ever heard an Athair song; I'd considered it one of the turning points of my life. I'd always believed that meeting him would be one of those, but after it had happened, during that everlasting puke-filled car ride, and the ensuing horror of the next few days, I'd decided it wasn't a fateful moment after all. Instead it had been the worst decision of my entire life. But as we kissed, our tongues meeting, his hands sliding down my back, I changed my mind yet again. It hadn't seemed that way at the time, but Edward had actually had it right the first time.

_Nevermind. It doesn't even matter. Take off your clothes._

"Edward," I said breathlessly as I pulled back, looking into his eyes, trying to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

He smirked at me then, and it was then I realized: I was knee deep in shit, and the only person who could pull me out was him.

I'd been about to ask if this was really a good idea, because, as always, I'd already started to overthink, but the smirk erased the last vestige of rational, coherent thought from my brain. "Nevermind," I told him with a rush of adrenaline as I pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his lap. "It doesn't even matter. Take off your clothes."

Edward laughed as his hands steadied me, his fingers toying with the waist band of my donated boxer shorts. "My clothes?" he asked. "I think you're in more of a position for clothes removal."

"Already criticizing my positions, Cullen?" He was hard in his jeans, and I couldn't help but rub against him almost helplessly through the thin material of the boxers. The pleasure that crashed through me was reminiscent of what I'd felt earlier, when I'd driven Edward so crazy that he'd come in his pants. "Oh, whoops," I said with a giggle, "maybe I shouldn't do that."

"Witch," Edward playfully glowered at me as he grasped me hard against the waist, and then flipped our positions so that he was the one perched over me. His lips connected with mine, and we kissed again, and this time, there wasn't that haunting bittersweet aftertaste. All I could taste and smell and _feel _was Edward, and I realized then that there wouldn't ever be a next time. This time would have been burned into me, seared into the very fiber of my being, so that I wouldn't ever forget it.

"I thought I was the Bitch," I panted as lips moved from across my cheek and down the column of my neck.

"No more talking," he growled as he moved one leg, and then the other, to rest around his hips, all while he attacked the increasingly sensitive skin of my neck. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and the rough stubble on his face rubbed insistently against me, the pinpricks of pain melting into something hot and insistent at the base of my spine.

"What about moaning?" I asked, retreating, as I always did, to the comfortable banter that kept everyone at arm's length. Not that Edward was any distance from me right now. We were wrapped up so closely together that it was hard to say where his body left off and mine started. I tucked my feet together and pulled his hips closer against mine, finding the perfect spot that made my eyes cross as my cotton-clad core met his jean-covered cock.

"Fine. You want to do this the hard way?" Edward grumbled, but his expression was light and his eyes impossibly green as they twinkled at me. "I'm going to make sure you're not even capable of speaking."

I was about to say that this was a rather egotistical boast, but then he bent down and his stubble met the soft skin of my belly, and suddenly it wasn't anything like pain at all, only unbearably hot searing pleasure. As he nuzzled my stomach, the coarse hair gently abrading me, he was right; I was beyond words as he worked his way up, past my belly button, until his tongue met the underside of my breast as I shuddered.

"Please," I panted, as he traced teasing criss-crossing lines over one breast and then the other.

"Still able to talk. Must not be doing a good enough job," Edward ground out, and as if it were a personal mission he was determined not to fail, he rededicated himself to learning every inch of me—except, of course, the very places that I was dying to have him touch.

When his mouth finally found a nipple, I felt as if I'd been electrocuted by the power of his touch. My skin felt unbearably hot and about two sizes too small for my frame. I was being stretched, one painfully pleasurable inch at a time, on a rack of Edward-torture.

My mind was washed in fuzzy, incoherent thoughts as his teeth joined his lips, and he nibbled his way back down my stomach. I thought I might have heard him groan when he finally reached the elastic waistband of the boxers again, and my fingertips dug into his shoulders at the white hot needles of pleasure that sank into me as his fingers skated over the damp crotch of the boxers.

I thought I might have wailed as those magic fingers disappeared again, and there was only his mouth at my waist, teasing me, but not giving me any more of what I wanted—no, I _needed_—so desperately. Searching for what he'd deprived me of, I raised my hips and groaned as I found him, hard inside his jeans. Shamelessly, I rubbed against him again, but this time, he pushed me back.

"Bella," he muttered, "don't you fucking dare."

"Afraid," I taunted, my breath coming in pants as if I'd been running a marathon. Though he'd barely touched me, I felt like a rocket with the fuse already lit; I could go off at any time-I just needed the right touch. And Edward's had already proved to be more than up to the task.

"You mean about earlier?"

I yanked his shirt off, pressing my damp chest against his bare one, and I dug my fingers harder into his shoulder blades, my hips bucking but finding only air. "Not funny. Just fucking _take _me now. I know you want to."

"You're right," he agreed, and I was barely able to register just how rough and guttural his voice had become. If I hadn't seen him come in his pants less than a day before, I would be astonished that it was _me _having this effect on Edward Cullen. Hadn't he once sang that he was tired of sex and what it could offer? He sure as hell didn't seem tired of it now—in fact, he seemed just as into the moment as I was. "Is this what you're looking for?" he taunted as he finally pushed aside the useless scrap of fabric covering my needy core, his thumb resting on my clit. "Is this what you wanted?"

"God, yes. _More_," I demanded greedily as he slid an experimental finger inside me and his thumb continued to work a hitherto-unknown magic on my clit.

I was so damn close, and he must have known it too, because he pulled away then, his hand suddenly missing, the pleasure spiking one second, then gone the next.

"Do you really want more?" he asked, his own breath harsh in the otherwise-silent room. At first, I was too swamped in what had almost happened to follow what he was trying to say.

And, _duh_. He was trying to be sensitive and sweet, though the point was obscured because he was either not used to asking or I was too far gone to be able to decipher anything but the bluntest of statements.

"Yes," I insisted. "You know I do."

"But Bella. . ." he hesitated, as my hands reached for his arms, for his chest, for any part of him that I could reach. "You know we don't have protection."

"I'm on the shot, it doesn't matter," I said recklessly, though I'd never been reckless about protection in my life. My own existence had resulted from a broken condom, and I'd never trusted them.

"Bella," Edward said again, slowly, as if I was stupid and needed it explained. Which, at this point, I probably did.

"What?" I snapped. "I thought we were in the middle of something."

"Bella, you know me. You know what I've done. . .what I _did_."

It hit me like a hammer in one of those carnival games. _Bing_, went the tinkling hammer in my absent brain. I was high on the possibility of Edward Cullen sex, and I couldn't think clearly. To say the least. "Oh," I said softly.

"I'm clean though; I mean, I get tested all the time."

In the end, it came down to trust, and though I was probably crazy to, I decided I did. I didn't think he would lie to me, at least not about that. Yeah, he'd spent the first few days trying to blackmail me into sleeping with him, but this was different. This Edward was different.

"Alright," I whispered. "I trust you."

Edward's expression was serious as he bent down and kissed me so hard, melding his body to mine. I thought he might be unbuttoning his jeans down, but my eyes had drooped closed with each persistent, drugging kiss that Edward gave me.

His fingers were fire on my skin as he tugged down the boxer shorts, and I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Beautiful," he said, almost reverently, as he caressed my naked hip. I heard Edward's zipper, and opened my eyes to see his pants falling to the ground, and I felt my own wordless sigh of reverence. Me, beautiful? Doubtful. But Edward was gorgeous naked, just as I'd always known he would be. The only ugly thing about Edward had been his attitude, and he'd shed that like a skin over the last few days, leaving only the vulnerable, hidden core that he'd shown to me and to me only.

"Want you so bad," he groaned as he bent my knee and curled my leg around his hip. I felt him pause at my entrance, like the calm eye of the storm, and I held my breath, my eyes fluttering closed as he slid inside me.

It had been awhile for me since I'd last had sex, and he was big. I tensed, overwhelmed by the taste of his mouth and the feel of him inside of me. "Bella," he crooned, his voice a rough approximation of every fantasy I'd ever dreamed about Edward Cullen from Athair seducing me. "Look at me."

Like Pavlov's dog, my eyes opened on his command, and the intensity in his pinned me to the bed. "You want more?" he crooned, sliding out a little, and then back in with a motion that sent me reeling.

I could only nod, and he repeated himself, asking between each movement if I was alright, in that wet dream voice of his. Maybe it was just my imagination, or maybe it was real, but each time he spoke, his tone was lower, rougher, as if he was being forced to dig to new depths of self-control.

"Bella," he ordered as he sank the last bit of the way into me, and my breath caught in a sob as he paused. "Tell me you want me to fuck you now."

I wasn't sure I could even form actual words, nevermind an entire sentence. My brain and my voice were scrambled, like I'd been on a rollercoaster for hours. "Please," I managed, unashamedly begging for him to finish what we'd started so long ago. "Edward. Now."

He didn't need any more direction than that, and he started moving inside me, the rhythm syncopated and unique, leaving me breathless and wanting more as my body desperately tried to predict his movements. So I just clutched at his shoulders, wrapped my legs around his hips, and let him carry me on wave after wave of pleasure.

There weren't even individual thoughts, only feelings, tastes and the gold spangled explosion behind my eyelids as tilted me and took me even higher, until I couldn't help but disintegrate into an orgasm that seemed like both the end and the beginning, all wrapped up in one.

He gave me one last savage, uncontrolled thrust and exploded after me. Collapsing onto me, we lay together, unmoving and silent for a long time.

Stupidly, I couldn't help but wondering if what we'd just had compared to his usual bevy of supermodels and professional groupies. I might have pretended to be the latter, but I didn't have their breadth of experience, and I was afraid that it had shown. He'd seemed engaged enough, and his shout of triumph as he'd unraveled proved that he'd enjoyed it enough, I supposed, but the thought wouldn't stay buried, and finally it rose, demanding to be spoken, to the surface.

"That was good," I broke into the silence between us.

"It was," Edward agreed, and there was an odd tone of awe in his voice. As if something had surprised him. And that made no sense whatsoever because there hadn't been anything particularly groundbreaking about the sex we'd shared. Yes, it had been good, maybe even great, but it hadn't exactly been _novel_.

I didn't want to move, but now I was curious, so I lifted myself up, my hands sliding a little on Edward's damp skin. I wanted to see his face, to see if he looked as flabbergasted as he sounded.

He did. He looked as if someone had just broadsided him with a tree branch.

"I have to ask," I said, trying for a half-joking tone of voice—my usual snarky safe zone—"you weren't a virgin, were you?"

He chuckled, as I'd been expecting him to. Because what could be more ludicrous than me asking the greatest womanizer in modern history, Edward Cullen, if I'd just taken his virginity?

"I'm serious," I said lightly, wrapping my arm around his bicep, and settling into my head into the crook of his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he asked, and I thought it might have been a rhetorical question. It didn't seem like he really wanted an answer, so I didn't say anything, I just waited for him to break down and tell me what was really on his mind—a week ago I wouldn't have known to wait him out, but now I knew that if I was patient, Edward would usually end up divulging the information I wanted to know. I didn't know what it was about me that seemed to be the key to Edward's particular lock, but he told me all sorts of things that I knew he'd never revealed to anyone. My brain told me that this was only because of the situation, and that I could have been anyone.

My heart wanted to believe that the situation was only part of it, and that the other half was the electrical tension that crackled between us, and the way I'd begun to be able to finish his sentences.

"You know," Edward finally said, in a casual tone that I knew belied just how important what he was saying was to him, "I've never slept with a woman that I actually really knew before. At least one that I knew as well as you."

"But you've slept with hundreds of women," I objected.

Edward gave a dry cough of amusement. "Probably," he agreed. "But the truth still stands. And," he paused, as if he couldn't believe he was actually saying this out loud, "it's never felt so . . . _good_. I'd begun to wonder why I even did what I did. It felt like I was just going through the motions, doing what I'd always done. I'm not even sure it felt good anymore. But god, Bella, that was amazing. I think we should do that all the time."

I wanted to laugh and cry and beat my fists on the concrete floor with the utter frustration of the situation we were in. "You know we can't," I tried to tell him logically, blocking the sluggish pulse of hope in my stupid, naïve heart. "_They'll_ be back soon."

I didn't want to bring up Aro and Jane—the outside world had stayed outside for the last hour and it had been a magical, transcendent hour—but it stupid to ignore the realities of the situation. Besides, I wasn't sure Edward was even serious. He rarely slept with the same girl twice, and he was never faithful. I'd really only done this because I knew even if I wanted to, there wasn't a way we could ever repeat it.

"Right," Edward agreed, in a pseudo-logical voice similar to my own. "That's right. How could I forget?"

I watched as the skin Edward had been so busy shedding only minutes earlier grew back, and his green eyes shuttered against all the emotion that he'd always refused to embrace. And nothing had really changed, I realized. Everything was just as it should be. Edward was still Edward, and I was still Bella Swan. Aro and Jane would come back to the house, and in the end, Edward and I would be forced our separate ways.

I couldn't possibly expect—or hope—for anything else. To even begin to go there would only be folly, but there was still things, minuscule particles of what-could-have-been's, that I could still take with me:

1. Edward Cullen could remember the lyrics to every song he'd ever heard.

2. He might not admit it publicly but he loved Nine Inch Nails. Even the cliche songs like "Closer."

3. He didn't like talking about _Aiming to Misbehave_, and I was fairly certain he was ashamed of it.

4. His favorite Athair song was "Tessie."

5. His father had died when he was 2 years old.

6. His mother was the Ice Queen, Esme Platt.

7. He thought Bella Swan was more beautiful than Renee Swan-even if that was impossible to believe.

8. He'd never had sex with a girl he liked, until me, Bella Swan.

9. His real name -the name nobody knew- was Finn.

10. Edward might like to pretend that he was an asshat, but I knew better now. He was a good guy, under all that pretentious crap, and even more, he secretly wanted someone to let him be the hero.

So, because I was teetering on the precipice of caring about him far more than I should, I would let him. Someone, after all, had to let him be the person that he was capable of being.


	22. Stockholm Syndrome

**AN: I can't even express what everyone's reviews last chapter meant-I was brought to tears more than once at the support and the love. THANK YOU.**

**Playlist updated.**

**Thank you to JosieSwan, the bestest best beta every, and to my cheerleader and pre-reader, Izzzy-the term "henchbitch" is all hers :)**

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**Chapter 21: Stockholm Syndrome**

**Edward**

There were a lot of things that I hated good ol' Uncle Niall for, but right now, at the top of my list was that Bella and I weren't even allowed to pause and luxuriate in the aftermath of the glorious sex we'd just had. He and Commando Barbie could be back at any time, and the last thing I wanted was for them to see us like this—naked and in each other's arms—and know what had just happened.

I'd never bothered hiding any of my sexual exploits before; in fact, I'd never even cared if everyone knew—and I'd made sure that everyone did. Emmett and Carlisle had seen the single—sometimes double or triple—file line of girls that had revolved through hotel doors since I was sixteen. Esme knew, and though she had never brought herself to actually say to my face that she thought my behavior was disgusting, she didn't have to... I could feel it in the way she looked at me, the way she couldn't meet my eyes the morning after yet another sex tape leaked or more pictures were posted on Perez Hilton's blog. Rosalie knew, because I'd done everything but fuck the other girls right in front of her, because if she knew what I really, truly was, then she would leave me alone.

But unlike all the rest, I didn't want anyone to know about Bella.

It wasn't because she wasn't my usual brand of blonde bimbo groupie; in the end, some deep part of me had wondered if I was good enough even to touch her. For a moment, I'd even hesitated, afraid that she was too clean, too pure—afraid that I'd leave streaks of filth and degradation on her milky white skin. And then she'd looked right at me, right _through _me, with so much trust in her eyes, that I wanted to be the man she imagined I was.

"Are you alright?" Bella asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time since we'd dressed. We were sitting on the edge of the cot, staring at the door, waiting for it to open and for destiny to kick us in the face.

"I'm fine," I reassured her, though it was a huge fucking lie. I wasn't fine and I wasn't going to be fine, but I'd never done anything brave in pretty much my entire life, and I was discovering that you weren't brave because you weren't scared. You were brave because you determined there was something more important than fear.

I felt Bella's eyes me, searching my face for the slightest hint that I was lying, but whatever she saw, she didn't call me on my dishonesty. She had to know that the more we talked about it—the more afraid that she knew I was—the less chance there was that I could actually do what had to be done.

She didn't even offer to talk about it because she knew that there wasn't anything she could say to make this better. It was shit, and nothing—no platitudes in the world—could make it any less smelly and disgusting.

As what must have been hours ticked by, I found myself almost looking forward to the moment the door would open and end this fucking purgatory of waiting.

"Is it wrong of me," Bella asked, with a slightly hysterical edge to her voice, "that I almost want them to show up and get this over with?"

It was a relief to laugh, to release the tension that had bound us so tightly. The sex had helped, to an extent, because it had finally burned through all the sexual tension that had lain between us, but now there was another kind of edginess in the air. I told myself that it had everything to do with what was about to happen, and my own dread of becoming everything that it turned out my father hadn't been after all. But I knew it was more than that. Before sex, I'd been able to view Bella almost-objectively—as a pretty, smart, _funny _girl, but one who I wasn't really all that attached to. The sex had destroyed the last vestiges of the wall between us, and I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't _like _her. I didn't even remember the last time that I'd even _liked _a girl.

Of course it just _had _to be _this _girl. The girl who was inevitably tangled up in the same fucked up mess that I was with my family and the Red Hands of Ulster, and so I felt more than obligated to get her out unscathed.

But I knew it was it was more than simple obligation; it was even more than egocentric heroics. I would do this even if nobody else but me and her ever knew what I'd done. All that mattered was that she was safe and far, far from the reach of that maniac, Niall, and his favorite henchbitch.

The door opened and the maniac himself stepped into the dim circle of light, with Jane only a step behind him. Her expression was just as dead as normal, except there was a hint of something explosive, fury perhaps, lurking behind the cold curtain of her dark eyes. The pit in the bottom of my stomach grew.

"Come," Niall barked, as if I was a dog and he was my master. "And bring the girl."

I'd been about to demand the same thing, so I wisely shut my trap. I needed a strong bargaining position, even though I didn't have a whole hell of a lot of points I could really bargain _with_, and pissing them off didn't seem like the best place to start.

I followed Niall out of the room, and down the now-familiar hallway, to the office that we'd sat in before. Bella filed in behind me, with Jane bringing up the rear.

Jane shut the door behind us with a solid, menacing click, and then she shot the bolt home, even though I was fairly certain there wasn't another human being in the house. Emmett had disappeared, and with it, the last hope I'd had that I wouldn't have to take this final, irrevocable step.

"It occurs to me," Niall said, settling behind his massive desk, "that while I'm asking you to make a decision that will arguably affect the rest of your life, we've never really discussed _why _we fight. Why you need to join us."

"I know why," I said levelly. "You know about me. About my music. Surely you know why I sing what I do."

Niall waved his hand, and almost ten years of my attempts to meld the Irish cause with my music fell flat. "I know," I repeated, struggling to stay calm. Or at least calm on the outside. Inside, I was already a seething mass of rage.

"I've heard your songs. You _think _you know why, but you don't truly understand. Not the way that I understand- or your father understood. You claim you burn with the injustice that the English have forced down our throats, but you yourself have never suffered a day of injustice in your life. You've lived a privileged, carefree existence, and so you've only played at the notion of sacrifice."

I felt as if I was ten years old again, and I was being called to the principal's office and told that all my efforts to be good were useless because I was inherently bad to the core. "I tried to reject her ways," I insisted. "We don't even share a last name."

"But you didn't take your _real _name back, Finn Ní Bhaoláin. You took a different last name, an _English _last name."

"Coincidence, I assure you."

"Regardless of why you selected Cullen, or why Esme re-named you Edward when you returned to America with her, you could have done your part to _truly _reject the comfortable life you had here. And you never did. You played at the idea, like it was a game. What we do, in the Red Hands, is not a game."

"I understand," I managed to choke out. Here was yet more proof that while my dad had given his life in a true act of selflessness, I'd been frittering my own life away, singing useless songs that ultimately meant nothing to anyone who actually cared.

Before, these thoughts would have sent me reeling towards the nearest whiskey bottle or the nearest blonde. Today, I looked right at the eyes that were so like my own, and I resolved that I wouldn't break this time.

"So, before your answer, let me tell you what you would be joining. The cause you would be committing to. You know, we Irish started as a noble people—proud, strong, and fiercely independent. We lived in clans, in tuathas, ruled by the high kings of Eire.

"The English would have you believe that they domesticated us; that they conquered us for our own good. What they did was destroy us, tear apart the very fabric of our people, of our culture. The Tudors began the theft of our country, when they declared Henry VIII the King of Ireland. As if he could truly be the King of Eire."

Aro's voice grew, rose, and I was momentarily taken aback by the passion and the fire and the _need _in his voice—to be respected, to be taken seriously. I was beginning to realize, as I listened to him, that I'd sold him short as a nutcase psycho who did what he did because he was officially irrelevant. But he truly, completely, believed- and that was reason why his grip on reality was no longer as strong as it once was.

"They stole our history, our customs, our language. They tortured and killed us for speaking the language, for celebrating the old ways, for worshipping our gods. When the English were finished conquering us, nothing remained of the old Ireland, except for a desire in the hearts of her people to win her back someday, to wrest the control from those who would see Ireland be a lesser, subjugated copy of England.

"We tried to drive them away, and when we failed, we plotted by the peat fire. We rebelled. Not once, not twice, but dozens of times. The Ulster Plantation failed, and yet they still came.

"And when the potatoes failed, when we starved by the millions, they did nothing. The English sat in their great homes, built on our land, by our labor and our sweat and our blood, and sold the crop to pad their own pockets.

"Your own great-great grandfather, he was a ruling member of the Fenian Brotherhood. He raised money and smuggled in guns and ammunition, and attempted to defeat the English in the raids.

"He failed, but the next generation took up the cause—and the next, and the next. Your grandfather fought in the Easter Rising, and barely escaped with his own life when the English imprisoned and killed anyone they could. His two older brothers died, one in battle, another in front of a firing squad."

I thought of that other bullet, shot from that other gun, that had killed my father, and I wondered if Niall felt any compunction at that act, or if only the loyal and the true to the Cause were lauded and remembered in death.

"There is a long tradition, Finn Ní Bhaoláin, of defending Ireland from those who would wish to rule it for themselves. It is our job, our _lives _to fight back, to wrest control back from the English. By turning your back on the Red Hands, you turn your back on the forefathers who sacrificed their lives to further the Cause."

I'd have to be deaf and dumb not to notice Niall's glaring omission on his list of who'd martyred themselves for the Cause, and it further convinced me his death hadn't been in the line of duty. Somehow, Niall had had something to do with it—whether he'd fired the bullet that had killed him or not.

Hushed, nearly-reverent silence filled the room after Niall's voice finally faded. I had to admit that he'd made one excellent point: there had been hundreds of years of blood and death and injustice and the current truce didn't excuse any of it. But it did, I realized, prevent more of the same.

"Now, boy, do you understand?" Aro looked at me like he expected me to say one thing, and even though I felt like I was fucking drowning, even though my brain was screaming another answer, I knew I didn't have a choice. There was really only one answer I could give.

"I understand," I reassured him, "and I would be honored to join you. To take my father's place."

I thought once I said the words that I would feel different, that I would feel _something_. But I only felt numb and cold. Dead.

I couldn't even feel Bella next to me, and I forced my eyes to stay straight ahead—not to betray that I cared about her by glancing at her to make sure she was still alright.

"Are you so sure he'll be the right man for the Red Hands?" Jane sneered, walking over to where Niall sat, her muscled arms snaking around his shoulders.

"I don't know anything," Niall told her. "But I do know that he's a Ní Bhaoláin."

"And what about the girl?" Jane asked then, before I could think of the best way to position myself that so I could appear to have _some _advantage—any advantage, really—that I could twist and use as leverage to get Bella out of this.

"You know what's going to happen to her," Niall said coldly, staring at me steadily, as if he was waiting for my mask to break and for me to show him just how little I wanted to be a Red Hand.

I didn't want to ask, but some courageous part of me that I didn't know existed until that moment forced the question out of me. "And what's going to happen to her?" _Don't use her name_, I told myself, _if you call her Bella they'll know you care even a little._

But he didn't answer me. Instead, he turned to Jane, his eyes glowing inhumanely in that unapologetically cruel face. "Will you do the honor, my dear?"

Jane was wearing a simple blank tank top and to my shock, she casually lifted up the back as if stripping for an audience was something she did every day of the week. There was a black sports bra under the tank top, so thankfully, I wasn't treated to more skin from her than I ever wanted to see, but then she turned, slowly, and as her back came into view, I felt instantly and horribly nauseous.

Bella, sitting next to me, made an involuntary sound of disbelief and horror at the view that Jane presented to us.

"Jane is my greatest masterpiece, my most prized possession. She is also the symbol of my ultimate sacrifice," Niall said proudly, as if she was a doll that he showed off for guests.

With the evidence on her back presented to us, it was hard to deny that anything he said was false. Any man who cared for a woman and then allowed something like that to happen to her would have to be maniacally dedicated.

Bella had found her voice. "How . . .how . . ." she stuttered, "how did that . . ._happen_?"

Jane turned, hiding the horror of the markings on her back, and the expression on her face was triumphant, as if she was _proud _of what had been done to her.

"It's a brand," she said matter-of-factly, as if people got brands all the time. "It's a tradition of the organization... to prove a man's true loyalty."

"Love distracts, it twists and demeans you," Niall interjected. "Love isn't permanent or lasting enough—we must destroy what we love, in order to more completely devote ourselves to what is most important."

There was a horrible rushing in my ears, and I felt lightheaded with panic. I couldn't look at Bella now, even if I'd wanted to. I couldn't face her, and the horrible premonition that Niall's words were striking inside of me.

"Are you saying that I'm Edward's sacrifice?" Bella was stronger than me; she could ask the question that I couldn't.

"He clearly cares about you. You joined him in this. Your sacrifice would be appropriate, under the circumstances."

I could feel Bella's astonishment radiate out from her in waves, and I finally took a chance and glanced over at her. Shock was plain to see on her face, and I couldn't help that I felt much the same way. Niall had said I cared about her in such a matter-of-fact way that it hadn't even been up for debate. Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I did or not—all I knew was that I wasn't going to fucking touch her with whatever made those horrific marks on Jane's back. Hell would freeze over, and I'd let every ounce of blood leak from my body before I ever touched a woman -especially a woman like Bella- like that.

"You've got the wrong girl," Bella said flatly. "Edward doesn't care about me."

"No need to lie, my dear. The evidence is impossible to deny, especially considering the way he usually treats women. No, we both know that he cares—even if he doesn't know what caring is."

I didn't have time to consider the implications of what this even _meant _in terms of how I felt for Bella, because my attention was suddenly transfixed by what Jane had turned to do in the fireplace. And then I saw it—the thing that had made the marks on her skin. It was stuck in the fire, a crudely fashioned brand that seemed too archaic to be used in this modern age.

"Don't you think this is a little insulting?" I asked. It was a little late, I'd decided bitterly, to try to play nice and go along with the plan. We were going to do that if things went normally, and the situation had clearly transitioned to insanity. "I'm not going to brand Bella like a cow or something."

Niall's face hardened even further, and I was beyond caring that I'd just compared Jane to a cow. The entire scene had developed a dreamy, otherworldly quality—until I wasn't even sure it was real anymore. In a few minutes, I was certain I'd wake up in a Hale hotel, my mouth dry and my head pounding with all the whiskey I'd ingested the night before.

"Your father didn't like it either," Jane sneered.

"Leave Eoghan out of this," Niall bellowed before she could continue any farther. "He knew what was required, what he needed to give when he found her. He should never have resisted."

"We know what he _should _have done, but he didn't. Maybe it's like father, like son," Jane said slyly.

"Enough," Niall insisted, his voice growing louder and angrier, and his attention, even for a half a second, was finally diverted from me and Bella. I took the opportunity to glance at her again out of the corner of my eye, and I was surprised to see not just fear in her eyes, but a very real, very hardened determination.

"Edward," she hissed, low, under her breath, "don't argue. Just do it."

I was so shocked I could only helplessly stare at her. "What?" I mouthed. "_No_._"_

"Do it," Bella repeated again.

If I was looking at the situation from a logical angle, I supposed that Bella's insistence made sense. If I refused to do what they asked, Niall would never believe that I was prepared to join the Red Hands, and if he didn't believe that, neither of us would make it out of this with our lives.

But, logic be damned, I couldn't do it. I couldn't even _think _about doing it. It was completely, patently impossible. In fact, I thought I'd do just about anything, take any sort of punishment, to avoid pressing that red hot metal into Bella's flawless, soft skin.

The image of the puckered, scarred skin of Jane's back flashed in my mind, and I wanted to retch. Even if I could be prepared to actually do this horrific thing to Bella, she would live the rest of her life with the evidence of this horror marked on her skin. And that was unacceptable.

"I won't do it," I announced. "it's barbaric."

Jane shrugged, her expression announcing that she'd known I couldn't stomach it. That I wasn't _man _enough to do what was required. Fuck, if that was being a man, I'd gladly be just about anything else.

"You understand what you're saying," Niall said, eyes narrowing coldly at me. If I'd believed that Esme was icy, this man was like Antarctica in human form.

I nodded mechanically, the taste of panic bitter and metallic in my dry mouth. "Regardless of whether I care for her or not—and you're wrong by the way, I don't really—nobody deserves to be treated that way. My father wouldn't do it, and neither will I."

A muscle in Niall's jaw twitched, and I could feel the growing thundercloud. I should be afraid, I thought, but that required feeling something—anything—and I was simply too numb.

"Your father," he said, temper evident in his voice, "was weak. He gave into love. He didn't renounce it, use it to feed the flames."

"He loved my mother," I couldn't help but whisper.

"He was a weakling!" Niall suddenly roared, and he was on his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. "She was a silly, stupid girl. He was powerful and strong; to let someone like her bring him to his knees was shameful."

I'd said my share of shitty things about Esme over the last ten years, but what he was saying wasn't fair. Esme was a lot of things, but silly or stupid weren't on the list. Plus, I was beginning to be able to feel again, to _think_, and if we were going to get out of this, I knew we had to change the status quo in our favor. The only way I could think of was to get Niall even more upset- the way he'd become before, when I'd thrown back the need for the Red Hands back in his face.

He was already mad now, I reasoned, it wouldn't be that difficult to push him just a bit farther, over the edge, until Jane was forced to calm him down. We'd be returned to our cell, and I could only hope that the respite wouldn't just be temporary. Maybe Bella had been right and Emmett had truly gone for help. The extra hour wouldn't be much, but it would be something—a stay of execution.

"You must have felt betrayed," I sneered, "to have your own _brother _refuse to do what you'd done- to turn his back on his family, on his heritage."

I watched my words fall like nuclear bombs into Niall's lap. Bella made an involuntary noise that might have been a whimper, but I couldn't look at her now. I focused every particle of my attention and my control on my uncle and let the rage I'd held inside for so long fly.

"He thought it wasn't _safe_," Niall exploded. "She was a pampered, spoiled little bitch. And he wouldn't listen to me when I said it would never work."

I thought I'd have to continue, to prod him more until he lost it completely, but I'd apparently already said enough, because Niall was off and running, his face growing redder by the moment. "To listen to _her_, instead of me. It was fucking _wrong_." He was yelling now, and Jane was at his side, hands on his arms, trying to pull him down to the chair, but he flung her off, moving her small frame as if it was nothing. I swallowed hard and prayed that he wouldn't decide to take out his anger on Bella.

"Niall," Jane insisted, "_listen _to me." But he wouldn't. He was off on another planet—lost in another time.

She turned to me then, and I could tell from her expression that she'd known what I'd been doing, and that while Niall might be incapacitated, she'd make sure he knew about it the moment he'd regained control.

"Let's go," she said flatly, grabbing me by the arm as she passed by my chair. "You think you're so smart," she added as we headed down the hallway. "But he'll be unforgiving after this."

I'd had a feeling that I'd have to pay for what I'd done, and so Jane's pronouncement wasn't exactly a surprise.

She flung me into the cell first, her claw like fingers leaving deep marks in my skin. I looked down at them, and then back up at Bella, who appeared to have absorbed through emotional osmosis some of Niall's excess rage.

"What were you thinking!" she yelled at me as soon as the door slammed shut behind Jane. "Why didn't you do it?"

Bella had insisted before, while we'd been in the room with Niall and Jane, but I'd never thought she'd get _this _angry that I'd refused to hurt her. Wasn't that supposed to be a _good _thing?

"I'm fucking sorry, okay?" I said shortly, annoyed I wasn't getting more credit for saving her from such a horrific fate. "I wasn't aware that you were looking forward to it."

"Fuck you," she snapped bitterly at me. "This is no time to be pouting because you couldn't play the fucking hero."

"Yeah, so I was trying to save you. So what. Clearly you don't _want _to be saved."

"You heard her! Aro's going to be ten times more pissed when he calms down. He's going to realize you worked him up on purpose, and he's going to kill us both. Slowly. I'll take being branded over an agonizing death any day of the week."

I didn't understand her; didn't she trust me at all? I'd vowed to me and to _her _that I'd get us out of this. When had she stopped believing that was possible?

"There's a third option, you know," I told her, my voice as patronizing rock star as I could get. "I get us out of here, and there's no fucking branding and no fucking death."

"When are you going to get it?" she yelled, and I could hear her panting breaths in the otherwise silent room. This was just like the moment when Jane had thrown that sandwich on the floor, and she'd lost control. All I had to do was wait for Hurricane Bella to pass. "There _isn't _going to be a Door C! There's only Door A and Door I'm Going to Fucking Kill You!"

"How many times do I have to tell you," I ground out, trying to control my temper and losing the uphill battle. "I've got it all worked out."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, that's just fucking great, then. I'm so pleased to hear your faith in me lasted so damn long, Swan."

Bella only made a frustrated, agonized sound and I heard her sit down heavily on the cot. I turned towards the door, because I wasn't entirely certain that I could stop myself from going apeshit on her. The confrontation with Niall had frayed my temper, and Bella had just set fire to what was left.

We stewed in silence for what felt like hours. Sometimes I could feel her eyes on my back, boring into me with fury and frustration, but I refused to give in and come sit down next to her. I felt like we'd regressed back to when we'd first been taken, and she'd made me crazy with her fucking annoying tenacity.

I used the time to try to figure out what on earth I was going to do to get us out of this situation, and as I calmed down, I realized that Bella had, to an extent, been right. Niall was going to be even angrier now—likely relentless in his need to punish me for turning him down and then provoking him on purpose. But even when I'd finally admitted that she'd had a point, I still couldn't fathom doing what Niall had asked of me.

Even more unfathomable was that Bella was willing to sacrifice that much to save us—she was essentially willing to turn herself into Jane, who frightened the living shit out of her. If I hadn't respected her before this moment, she was rapidly becoming the most frustrating, most fascinating woman that I'd ever met. The way she was able to do whatever it took was gritty and real and kind of awe-inspiring.

I decided that she was probably waiting for me to speak first—like some stupid game that middle school girls played—and I gave in. "You have to understand," I said quietly, "I could do a lot of things—I personally could take a lot of pain and suffering—if I could get us out of here. But I could never do that to you."

She didn't answer right away, and I wondered for a moment if she'd fallen asleep or even worse—if she'd passed out from the stress of our circumstances. But when I turned back to look at her, she was looking up at me with wary, worried eyes.

"I know," she said, picking at the edge of her t-shirt. "But you still should have done it."

"I couldn't. And that probably makes me a pussy. I'm sorry. Not that matters much now."

"Not really no," she said wryly, as if she could find some bizarre irony in the situation. And that was another thing I loved about Bella; her unflappable sense of humor. Even facing down torture and possibly death, she could still find the humorous side of just about anything. _There isn't going to be a Door C! There's only Door A and Door I'm Going to Fucking Kill You!_

And then the door—which ever one that Niall chose to push us through remained to be seen—opened.

Jane stepped into the room, but to my surprise, she didn't immediately insist we follow her back to Niall.

"You only have a moment," she said, and her voice was different . . .I would have said softer, but I'd already come to the conclusion that there wasn't a single fucking thing about Jane that was soft.

"What?" I asked.

"You only have a moment," she repeated in a hushed tone. "And I can't really help you, except . . ." And she did the most bizarre thing of all. She went to the doorway and pushed it back open, and held it wide, as if she wanted us to walk through it.

I took a hesitant step forward. "I don't understand," I finally confessed.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Let me explain it to you. In short sentences without any big words so you get it. Niall isn't stable. . .and I've decided that this isn't worth—_you _aren't worth—demolishing what's left of his fragile hold on reality. I've sacrificed everything for him, for what he stands for. And I'm not about to see you destroy it."

"You're letting us go," Bella stated, wonderingly. "Seriously? This isn't a trap?"

Jane glared at her. "Try me."

She didn't have to ask me twice. I took Bella's hand, almost as if it felt _right _to do this together, and we were down the hallway, glancing over our shoulders ever few moments, to make sure that Jane or Niall weren't following us. We paused at the front door, hearts racing, as I tried to slide the locks open as noiselessly as possible.

We didn't even shut the door behind us; just left it swinging wide open, and started to run into the black night.


	23. The Tenacity of Hope

**AN: Wow, everyone's reviews on the last chapter BLEW my mind. I am so honored you love this story so much. It means more than you can really know. I wish I had the time to reply to everyone's reviews, but it's hard enough with work to have a chapter ready to update each week. So if I don't reply, that doesn't mean I don't absolutely adore you and really appreciate what you say.**

**A lot of you found some factual errors with Edward's "real" last name. I'm obviously not a Gaelic expert. Sorry about that.**

**Playlist updated. Thanks also to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, and to Izzzzy, who is my kickass pre-reader.**

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**Chapter 22: The Tenacity of Hope**

**Rosalie**

For so long, I'd felt like while my life was nearly universally envied by everyone who knew me—or everyone who _thought _they knew me—the reality was that a life devoid of hope wasn't worth one living at all. And I'd been without a single shred of hope for what felt like a very, very long time.

Edward and I had been locked in a mutually destructive relationship that not only had no hope of a future, but had never been any good for either of us. I'd told myself for weeks (months) leading up to Boston that we needed to go our separate ways, but he'd sucked me back in every time with his charm- and with my own belief that if I was alone, I was worthless.

Overall, it had been a pretty fucking bad year.

And then it had taken an abrupt turn for the worse when Edward and Bella had been taken by the Red Hands of Ulster—but just briefly, for the merest sliver of a moment, it had improved vastly and the reason for that improvement was standing in front of me now, renewing my belief that hope wasn't something that ignorant people believed because they weren't satisfied with their own mediocre lives.

Hope was real; hope was a living, breathing man named Emmett McCarty, who despite all the odds and the cruel vagaries of fate, loved me.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and it broke my heart that he couldn't even meet my eyes when he said it. Shame and guilt forced his head down, and I hated seeing him brought so low. Yes, what he'd done was a terrible thing, but he'd also done it for a good reason and then he'd set out to make it right.

"Don't be sorry," I told him fiercely from my perch on the bed. "Don't be sorry to me. I just wish you had told me about this before, that night you made me promise that I wouldn't get involved. I could have . . ."

"You could have what, Rose?" Emmett interrupted wryly. "The whole point of that promise was that I wouldn't _have _to tell you—that you wouldn't be mixed up in all this." He walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge. I'd have to be blind to notice that he wasn't making any attempt to touch me again, not since the embrace we'd shared when he'd arrived.

I wondered briefly if he'd changed his mind; if I was wrong and he wasn't in love with me after all. But I had been unbelievably certain this morning when he'd looked at me in Esme's office.

"Too late," I told him insistently. "It was too late the moment you kissed me."

"Don't you remember? You kissed me." He tried to make his voice light, but somewhere in the execution, the effort just failed, and I felt a twinge of apprehension.

"Right," I said uneasily. "That's right."

Silence fell between us in the early dusk. All afternoon I'd wanted nothing but to be alone with him, to drink in the sight of him—healthy and unhurt and _fine_—but now with him in front of me, I didn't know what to say. Or what to do.

"Regardless," I said, forging on almost recklessly now, unable to prevent the panic that made the dinner we'd shared feel too heavy in my stomach, "that's just semantics. It would have happened one way or the other."

Emmett didn't say a word. "Right?" I finally asked, hating the doubt in my own voice. There'd been a time—before Edward—that I'd been unbelievably certain in my ability to make men fall to their knees and into love with me. I'd lost the swagger and the confidence that was Rosalie Hale, and though I faked it in public, I couldn't pretend in front of Emmett.

"I don't think you understand," he said, getting to his feet again. I wanted to reach out and snatch him back, hold him to me, before he could run any further away. And he'd just come back. Why was he running _already_?

"What don't I understand?" _Calm_, I told myself, _you're going to stay calm. Don't cry; don't yell; don't tell him that he's smashing your heart and your ego to smithereens._

He sat again, heavily this time, his shoulders bowed over, head in his hands, as if the weight of the world was holding him down physically. "You have to understand; I didn't know what they wanted with Edward. It was stupid and naïve probably, not to understand what a man like Aro would do, even to his nephew, but I've always wanted to believe in the best of people. And the further I got, the deeper I sank, the more I had to come to terms with the fact that to save Edward and Bella, I was going to have give up something that I wanted—something I'd dreamed about for a very long time."

I thought I knew what it was, and his confession bolstered my resolve that he wasn't going to be able to push me away. I just wasn't going to let him do it. I didn't need protecting. If anything, he was the one who needed the protection now, and I was in a position to give him whatever he needed.

He turned and looked me in the eye for the first time since we'd entered the bedroom. "You, Rose. I knew I'd have to give you up."

"But why?" I burst out, angry that he was such a stupid, self-sacrificing jerk. "I'm not mad at you, even. You said you were sorry, and I believe it. Even Esme isn't mad; she's only relieved that Edward's going to be safe."

"It isn't about that, and you know it."

"Then what is it about, then? Emmett, I know we haven't exactly had that much time together, and I'm just beginning to realize what you've obviously known for a long time," I said, unable to hide the trace of bitterness in my voice at all those months he'd longed for me—had stood by and watched me miserable with Edward, "but I'm not going to give up on the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're not going to be able to give me up; I won't let you."

"What if I don't want you?"

"Don't be daft," I said, and to my shock, the confident statement didn't feel like a hollow lie, but something I truly _believed_. I was so sure that Emmett loved me that I could nearly taste the ashes as he burned himself, the stupid fucking martyr.

Gianna had told me sometimes confidence and self-assurance came back so slowly you didn't even realize it was growing inside of you, and sometimes it came back in a flash, in a moment where you really needed it. This was definitely the latter, and even though I was sitting down on the bed, I straightened my back and looked right into his eyes. "You love me," I told him, "and I won't let you leave until I love you too, you moron."

Emmett laughed then, a shaky sound that broke the tension in the room. "Only you, Rosie. Only you."

"I'm not wrong," I countered. "I know I'm not."

"You're not," he replied wryly. "And I have to add, welcome back. How does it feel, finally realizing that you're fucking amazing?"

I would have to be an even bigger idiot than Emmett not to know what he meant. After all, he'd been witness to my whole downward spiral, and he'd known the Rosalie that had existed before Edward Cullen. "Thank you," I said with a giggle, "and it feels pretty fucking good." Our eyes met, and this time there wasn't any coldness or withdrawal in his gaze, only the heat and the affection that I remembered from our brief time before he'd left.

"Come here," he said roughly. I didn't need to be told twice; I scooted over the bed and fell into him, loving the way that his big arms encircled me and protected me, even as my hands stroked his back reassuringly.

"I meant what I said," Emmett murmured into my hair, "I should give you up. It isn't safe. Not for me anymore, and it's selfish of me to expose you to the consequences of my actions, but god, I missed you."

"I don't care," I told him fiercely, pulling back so he could see the resolve and the determination in my gaze. "I'm Rosalie fucking Hale—if I can't make it safe for you to be with me, I can't make it safe for anyone."

"I don't want to be your bitch that you're forced to protect," he said, and I knew his pride was at stake, but I couldn't let him walk away. Not now. Not like this.

"What? Being Rosalie Hale's bitch isn't something you've always wanted?" I asked him in a teasing voice, trying to pull some of that horrible burden off his shoulders and onto mine. His might be broader, but I was more than capable of handling what he could dish out. He just needed to stop treating me like I was breakable. When it came to him, I would be strong—anything else was unacceptable.

"Rose, I'm serious."

"So am I," I told him, pulling him tighter against me. "I have all this. . ._power_, I guess. And I don't ever use it for anything. I want to use it for you. Please."

Emmett sighed then, and I knew I had him. He'd never been very good at telling anyone no, but he was apparently especially bad when it came to me. "Fine," he said, "I'll consider it, but just so you know, this is going to be an ongoing discussion. I'm just not going to sit here and take whatever you tell me. We're a team—you don't need to take care of me."

It wasn't quite a total acceptance of what was going to happen, but it was close enough. We could work out the particulars later. Meanwhile, I was in the arms of an incredibly handsome, incredibly virile, very sweet man that I could possibly love, and I didn't want to talk any more about doom and gloom.

"Enough talk," I murmured as I reached up and pulled his head down to mine. "Shut up and let me kiss you again."

He laughed then, and I was relieved to hear that the melancholy edge had disappeared. "I'll have to remember that you have a thing for being the kisser instead of the kissee."

"Not usually," I admitted, leaning closer, brushing my lips over his once, then twice. "But with you? Definitely."

"I love you," he whispered. "I've loved you for so long."

"I know," I told him more than a little smugly. "But that doesn't make me any less glad that you do."

And then neither of us could talk at all, as Emmett threaded his fingers through my hair, cradling my skull and deepening the kiss. It was as good as I remembered—or better, maybe, because this time, I'd had time to reassess who I was and what I wanted, and I was pretty damn sure that it was Emmett McCarty.

* * *

**Esme**

I woke up in Carlisle's bed-in Carlisle's arms.

It was the dawn of a new day, and the dawn of a new Esme, except that I didn't feel new. I felt like the same old Esme, just with new mistakes.

The arms wrapped around me didn't feel like comfort. Instead, they felt like ropes, like a prison, holding me in, tying me to a destiny that I wasn't sure I wanted.

I was Esme Platt and nobody held me-metaphorically or otherwise. My throat was tight and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I tried to disentangle myself from his limbs, but the edges of my vision grew blurry first.

Carlisle must have woken with my struggle, because I felt his arms loosen, and I gasped out my relief as air rushed back into my throat.

"Esme, are you alright?" he asked, clearly concerned. "Did you have a bad dream?"

I wanted to tell him that it hadn't been a nightmare, but instead a vision of myself, battened down and trapped by what I'd just done, but affection for me shone out of his eyes and I found I couldn't disappoint him.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just anxious about Edward. I'm going to go take a shower. See you at breakfast?" I slipped out from under the covers, chattering as I mechanically found my clothes and slipped them back on. I deliberately stayed out of the reach of his arm, so that he wouldn't touch me again, and with a final fake smile, I exited his bedroom and practically ran to my own.

The door shut behind me, and I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath. I hadn't had a panic attack like that in ages-not since I'd returned from Ireland with Edward and all the burdens I'd brought with me.

I told myself it was Edward's rescue that had me so on edge this morning, but I knew I was lying to myself. Yes, it was a contributing factor, but the real reason was the vulnerability I'd allowed Carlisle to witness the night before. I'd dropped almost all my walls and let him see deeper inside of me than any man since Eoghan had.

Eoghan had been a massive error of judgment-so huge that it had nearly ruined my life and my son's life. Carlisle wasn't quite on par with that yet, but I refused to let him even get close to the possibility.

I would just have to tell him it was over. It didn't matter that I didn't want to; this was bigger than me, bigger than Carlisle.

Bigger than mere emotions.

* * *

I couldn't eat. Instead, I sat at the breakfast table, my heart in my throat, and tried to swallow it back down where it belonged with another sip of hot, dark coffee that I couldn't taste.

"You look pale," Carlisle said solicitously. He'd been hovering since we got up—asking me over and over if I was alright, reassuring me half a dozen times that he would call me every hour to give me updates, watching me like a hawk as I ate (or didn't eat). "You should try to eat something," he added.

"I'm fine," I said stiffly. In the hazy, dim light of twilight, drawing a line in the sand where Carlisle was concerned had seemed like a smart decision, but in the harsh daylight of the morning, I felt nervous and uneasy, like I'd done something that I couldn't go back from.

And maybe, I thought, glancing covertly over at the man next to me under the guise of spooning some fruit onto my empty plate, I was more than a little scared of what permanently decamping to the other side of the line might mean.

"You're lying, Esme. You forget, I can always tell when your eyes do that thing where they don't match your mouth." He said it matter-of-factly, as if accusing me of lying wasn't a serious offense and people did it all the time—which they most certainly did not.

He had to know that I was already crawling back to the safety behind the line—that I was looking for it, and what was left of my dignity. Women my age didn't have affairs. It was ludicrous and I refused to be a punchline for the gossip columnists.

"I can see what you're trying to do," he continued, reaching for my hand, "and you should know right now, it's not going to work."

"We're not talking about this right now," I hissed, as Renee entered the room, followed close behind by Rosalie and Alice. "And don't hold my hand," I ordered, disentangling my fingers from his.

Breakfast was a strained affair, and I could tell even Renee was apprehensive about the coming rescue because even her expertly applied makeup couldn't cover the dark circles under her eyes or the drawn, pale skin around her mouth. She looked older than I'd ever remembered seeing her, and I felt a twinge of something that might have been empathy, but I pushed it aside. Carlisle's refusal to even glance my direction set me even more on edge, and by the time Marcus and Emmett entered the breakfast nook to grab a quick cup of coffee before leaving, my nerves were completely frayed.

We women followed the men out to the circular driveway to wish them luck, but at the very last second, I nearly got cold feet because I wasn't sure I could look Carlisle in the eye as he drove away, but Renee had looked at me oddly as I'd attempted to make an excuse, so in the end, I didn't have any choice.

As we walked into the foyer, Carlisle grabbed my arm and forcibly dragged me into the doorway of the lounge as the rest of the group opened the front door and walked outside.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as loud as I dared, glaring at him as I pulled my arm away from his grip. "That's . . ." I spluttered, not sure how to respond to Carlisle's suddenly serious, equally cold stare. "That's unacceptable," I finally told him, drawing myself up as tall as I could. I was Esme Platt. _Nobody _pushed—or pulled—me around like I was a limp doll.

"I'd like to ask the same question," Carlisle said, making absolutely no effort to keep his voice down. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he didn't care if everyone found out about us.

"This," I gestured between us, "is not public knowledge."

"Yet," Carlisle added in a tone that brokered no argument, but I wasn't used to taking orders. Besides, this was one order that was just plain unacceptable.

"No. You don't _get _it. We can't do . . ._this_. Whatever _this _is." I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look tough, but those blue eyes melted my armor away as if it didn't even exist.

"Esme," he laughed, a little bitterly I thought with a touch of wounded pride, "you don't have any idea how much I wish that I felt differently. That you were anyone else. Someone easier, perhaps, less prickly. Less _conflicted_. But it seems that I feel the way I do and not much is going to change that... even you being a bitch about it."

My mouth fell open. "You just called me a bitch."

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he'd done something totally commonplace. "Sometimes I tell it like it is."

I wanted to argue that he was wrong, that I was right, and that not only was pursuing this a terrible idea; it was an even _worse _plan to announce it to the world, but I couldn't deny the ring of the truth his words had. I _was _being a bitch.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, suddenly feeling the anger deflate out of my sails. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"I'm going to need a little time."

"A little?"

I smiled now, at his crooked smirk. "Alright, a lot of time. Is that better?"

"Yes. Now kiss me goodbye." And after the final order, he just stood there, waiting. Like I was actually going to do as he said.

"What?" he asked, a faintly exasperated tone in his voice. "Nobody's looking; they're all outside."

I checked for myself—taking a step backwards so I could crane my neck around and make sure that everyone in the house was in the driveway. Once I'd confirmed what Carlisle had said, I knew I couldn't prevaricate any longer, but I still couldn't bring myself to do it. The courage of the night before seemed to have disappeared with the morning light.

Finally, Carlisle sighed, the exasperation clearly evident now. "Fine," he said, "I give up. I'll kiss you. If that's alright."

I nodded stiffly, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine. My hands lifted up and gripped his olive green jacket. "Be safe," I whispered as he pulled away.

He smiled bigger then, the happiness in his expression melting the glacier freeze in his eyes. "I'll try my best."

"Good," I said self-consciously, attempting to slip out of his arms before we were discovered. "I'd expect nothing less."

"Wait," Carlisle said. "One more." And he was leaning in, attempting to take the second by force, when I heard a voice that sent the fear of devil shooting through me.

"Esme?" It was Renee, and when I looked up, I realized she was standing in the foyer, looking right at us with the strangest expression on her face. I thought it might be something like triumph—or maybe I was wrong, because it was gone almost the instant it appeared. "It's time to go. Marcus says you're already behind schedule."

Carlisle smiled at her, and released me another quick brush of his lips over mine, as if kissing me goodbye was a totally normal thing to do.

He walked out the door, and I was still standing there, my feet frozen to the floor. "You didn't see that," I told Renee as she turned to follow Carlisle.

"See what?" she asked lightly, but I'd have to be crazy to miss the knowing edge in her voice. She'd seen enough, and If I was lucky, it would only take twenty four hours before it made the gossip rounds.

"Oh, nevermind," I said with frustration, as we exited the house.

Renee cried prettily, but not so much to smear her makeup; Alice looked worried, but hopeful; Rosalie put on a brave face, but I could see the underlying fear in her eyes. Emmett would have the most to risk in going back, and she'd only just gotten him home safely.

Rose gave him a last hug, a quick, fierce embrace that spoke louder than any words could. I found myself jealous of the obvious way that she could express how she felt about Emmett, while I was stuck in the middle of Purgatory, damned if I moved any closer, damned if I forced myself to leave him alone for good.

They were moving towards the Hummer, and Carlisle had the door open, smiling so wide it looked as if someone had just given him a house in the Hamptons and Jimi Hendrix's Strat. He was so damn happy that we'd been caught, while I felt sick that the whole world might know that I'd been weak and given into my physical desires. I saw him glace over at me once before turned to get into the Hummer, and I knew what he wanted—he wanted me to acknowledge him, acknowledge what was growing between us publically, the way that Emmett and Rose had. He didn't want me to be ashamed, of us or of him.

But I couldn't do it. I wasn't strong enough—or maybe I wasn't woman enough.

Carlisle climbed into the Hummer and as it drove away down the long driveway, I turned back to the rest of my houseguests and tried to forget Renee had just seen me do the unthinkable—tried to hope that _Renee _would forget that I'd done the unthinkable.

But of course, it was too juicy to forget and as I walked back up the driveway towards the house, she pounced.

"Esme," Renee trilled. "I'm so happy for you. You and Carlisle Masen . . ." She sounded about as thrilled as if Botox had suddenly been banned in the United States.

"It was nothing," I tried to reassure her, but she'd seen what she'd seen. It was too bad Dr. Phil didn't do memory reconstructions along with facial restructuring.

"You were kissing him," she insisted as she followed me into the house. I was just glad that Alice and Rose had decided to go into town for supplies and had left instead of returning. The last thing I needed was the two of them learning about my secret and spending every waking hour attempting to convince me of the romance and the rightness of the whole thing.

"A momentary aberration brought on by stress and little to no sleep," I murmured as we walked through the foyer.

But Renee was like a dog you couldn't shake; a bad smell that lingered. She forged on, following me into my office. Finally, I turned, facing her. "I would really appreciate you not mentioning what you saw to anyone," I confessed. "Honestly, I'm not even sure that there's anything between us. It's a very casual . . . ." I searched for words that would demonstrate just how meaningless it was -a random, accidental fling -but Renee interrupted me.

"It's not casual," she insisted. "He's in love with you."

For a moment, I stared at Renee Swan in shock. "Don't be ridiculous. He's not in love with me," I said when I could actually speak.

"He is," she said again, with more certainty this time. "But if you don't see it, won't see it, then that's your business."

As she walked out the door, I wondered for a split second if Renee was actually not quite the alien cyborg that I'd always thought she was, but I decided that one semi-human action didn't mean that she wasn't still a nasty piece of work who could spill my secret any time she wanted.

Carlisle sent me text messages updates every hour, telling me they were on the interstate, they had reached the Canadian border, they were nearing the house that Emmett had directed them to. I was a bundle of nerves, and stayed in my office, alone, alternatively pacing and sitting on the sofa, staring at a spot on the carpet.

I was terrified for Edward, of course, but I was suddenly sick with fear over what could happen to Carlisle. I had sent him up there, with Marcus—who was _trained _for this—because he was my employee and it was his job. I had never thought of the repercussions of what his presence might mean to him physically, but now I couldn't think of anything else. It had been incredibly stupid of me to insist on him going. He could be here right now, with me, distracting me from nearly tearing my hair out with anxiety.

My phone buzzed again, and this time it wasn't just a text message. It was a phone call, from Carlisle. I answered with shaking fingers and a stomach that might be sick at any moment.

"Yes?" I answered, not even caring that my voice was trembling or that I sounded nothing like my normal, confident, in-control self. I _wasn't _my normal, confident, in-control self today—I hadn't really been since Carlisle had called and told me that Edward had been taken by the Red Hands.

Carlisle didn't say anything right away. I could hear him breathing, and I put my head between my knees and tried to take a deep breath. Something terrible had happened. I was sure of it. I would never forgive myself if something had happened to Edward because I'd been a terrible mother and pushed him away.

"The house is empty," he said finally. "They're gone."

"Gone?" I didn't understand, the words simply not computing.

"It appears as if they've only recently left. Maybe only an hour before. But there's no sign of Edward or Bella. It's likely they've taken them. Marcus is looking at leads right now. I'll call you when I know more."

Carlisle was all business, and I was falling apart. I wanted the Carlisle who'd promised me that his hope would be _my _hope, but he said nothing else, and I heard the dial tone as he hung up.

The phone slipped through my numb fingers to the floor and I sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the intricate, thick weft of the carpeting. So expensive, and so fucking useless.

"I heard." I looked up to see Renee standing in the doorway, and she looked something like I felt.

I could only nod helplessly. She walked in and sat down next to me, and I couldn't help but notice that most of her makeup was gone—as if it had been magically scrubbed away. Or cried off.

"I'm a terrible mother," she whispered after a long silence.

If she thought I was going to argue with her, she was crazy. I said nothing, but she kept going. "I never meant to be- I just meant . . .hell, I don't know what I meant. I just knew that Bella was nothing like what I expected, and I didn't know how to deal with her. She wanted things I didn't understand, and instead of even _trying_, I attempted to force what I knew on her. I tried to get her to be a _model_," Renee laughed a little hysterically, and to my horror, I reached out and gripped her hand with mine.

"It's okay," I said. "She understood. She knew."

"Yes. And she hates me for it."

I thought of Carlisle and his tough love. "Probably. But she'll get over it. We're their mothers. They're kind of required to love us."

Renee made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob, and I decided that as long as we'd both moved onto the final round of Worst Mother Ever, I could throw my own hat into the ring. "When Edward told me that he'd signed his band, and that he was going to be famous, going to be shouting his father's propaganda from the skies, I've never been so angry. With him, with me. With everyone. I thought this was karma for what I'd done all those years before. So I told him that if he was going to do it, he wasn't going to drag me into the mire with him."

"And he changed his name," Renee finished.

I nodded. "I know he thinks that I'm ashamed of him, that I can't even stand for people to know we're related, and I suppose I let him think that, even though of course it isn't true."

We didn't speak for awhile. I didn't know what Renee was doing, but as we held hands -held onto each other for dear life- I was thinking of all the ways that I'd failed Edward. This being the most spectacular example of course, but there were so many others. Support I should have given that I hadn't. Words I should never have spoken—words I should have, but that I'd kept hidden away inside. It was impossible to deny that I'd seriously fucked up and now there might not be a chance to make it right.

"The last things Bella and I ever said to each other were in anger," Renee said in a shaky voice, and I looked up to see tears dripping down her cheeks. "I told her she was screwing away her future by doing what she loved."

"I don't even remember the last thing I said to Edward," I confessed bleakly. "We almost never spoke anymore. It was too hard. Too many things said, too many things unsaid."

It also went unsaid that we might never be able to right the many wrongs. I gripped Renee's hand harder and wished that we'd never been forced into this situation—wished that I'd never had to stare into her teary eyes and see a mirror of myself looking back at me.

I'd been so judgmental of her behavior, but I could no longer deny that her mistakes were my own. We were one in the same.

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**AN: Next chapter's title is "The Joshua Tree."**

**Hmmmm. Could we have some U2 coming up?**


	24. The Joshua Tree

**AN: More lovely reviews, thank you all so much for your support and your love. I did review replies last chapter because I've decided that's really the only way I can properly express how much I appreciate you, my readers. I also included teases. This will be continuing, because I'm the kind of author who likes to bribe their way into the hearts of her readers :)**

**A word of explanation for this chapter. There's a scene that I always intended to set to "With or Without You" by U2. The song just fit the mood and the emotions so perfectly, it was as if it had been created for what is going on between Edward and Bella in this chapter. When I ended up writing this chapter, I decided that it was actually the entire album that "With or Without You" is from, _The Joshua Tree_, that needed to be the inspiration. Thus, the chapter title. Also, I know I usually abhor using a lot of lyrics in stories, but in this particular scenario, the lyrics fit so perfectly, so beautifully expressed what I was unable to put into words, that I did use lyrics from the first three songs on _The Joshua Tree_-including the final song, "With or Without You." Please download or listen on the playlist while you read, because I really feel that it takes the chapter to a whole other level.**

**The songs are as follows (in order): "Where the Streets Have No Name," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," and "With or Without You."**

**Thank you to the most fabulous handholder and beta, JosieSwan, because without her, I would have thrown up my hands and given all this up a long time ago. And of course, to Izzzy, my darling cheerleader, who loved this chapter even though she decidedly did _not _enjoy its musical inspiration.**

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**Chapter 23: The Joshua Tree**

**Bella**

The night was velvet black, and it wrapped around us like a lover as Edward grasped my hand and we ran. And ran. And ran.

I didn't think Edward could see where he was going any better than I could, but I let him lead, his fingers gripping mine, and my sneaker-clad feet slapped heavily on the ground in the same rhythm as his. We ran for what felt like hours, keeping within sight of the road, but never coming close to it. Even after enough time had passed that the house was out sight and our breathing came in hard gasps, neither of us slowed down. I knew I could feel the cold death of Aro's stare even though he was miles away by now, and it went unspoken that Edward feared a trap as well.

It had been so long since I had breathed in fresh air, and even though it was cold, the chill in the spring air didn't bother me—I relished the freedom of the wind streaming through my hair and blood beating hard just under my skin.

But the exhilaration passed, and I felt labored, aches in my side and legs, and I finally yanked on Edward's arm, trying to tell him that we needed to stop- if only for a minute. Surely, I thought, we were far enough from Aro and Jane now to be certain that this wasn't some manipulative trap.

Edward finally slowed down and as we came to a halt, I released his hand, bending over to try to catch my breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his own breath coming in short pants.

It was the first thing either of us had spoken since leaving the house that had been more like a prison, and as much as I had hated that place, it was in there that Edward and I had managed to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between us. It was evidence of how weirdly paranoid and unhinged I'd become- that once we were free, I suddenly didn't know if he would be the same Edward. Maybe once he wasn't forced to be in the same room with me 24 hours a day, he wouldn't _want _to be.

I knew I was being ridiculous, but all my old insecurities came rushing to the surface as I looked up through the darkness and saw Edward standing there, staring at me. Maybe he'd run off now, and I'd never see him again.

"I'm fine," I told him. Fine seemed like a rather ridiculous choice of words, but it was all I could come up with—my brain felt fried with the superfluous emotions of the last forty-eight hours.

"Good." It seemed that Edward himself had reverted to silence, and so I joined him. In any case, it was easier than figuring out what to say to each other.

After a minute, he reached out and to my surprise, found my hand again. "Are you ready?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Let's go. But slower this time?"

"We need to find . . ."

"A phone," I finished when he couldn't seem to put his finger on what exactly it was that we needed to find.

"Yeah," he agreed with a distant voice, but I could nearly hear the gears in his head, and I wasn't sure at all that he _did _agree.

We progressed more slowly now, more jogging and fast walking than outright running. The farther we went, the more comfortable I became and the reality of our situation began to sink in. While we'd been screwed in the cabin, I wasn't sure we were any less screwed now. Emmett hadn't lied; it was hopelessly empty in this part of Canada. There were no houses, no cars, no lights, no towns. No anything, really. And I shivered, more with the fear that we were maybe the only two people out here than with the cold.

"Are you cold?" Edward asked solicitously, moving to unzip the sweatshirt he wore, but I stopped him.

"I'm fine," I repeated, as if I was one of those toy dolls who had a limited number of phrases they were capable of speaking. Maybe if I repeated it enough times, it would be true.

I knew he was going to question me—I could feel the change in the air between us—as if he'd suddenly realized that I was a big fucking liar and I was scared shitless, but before he could, I felt a sudden rush of relief that nearly brought me to my knees.

"Is that a roof?" I gasped out. "Over there? Over that ridge?"

Edward didn't say anything, but the grip on my fingers tightened considerably, and I found myself being nearly dragged over the landscape, through several bushes, and over a log, and around a stand of trees, until we came face to face with a small dark house not unlike the one we'd just escaped from. But this one, most importantly, didn't have a Red Hands of Ulster flag flying in the yard.

"It looks like nobody's home," I said uncertainly. Naturally, the one residence we'd managed to find and it was empty. Every single damn time I thought we were going to catch a break, things broke the other way.

Of course, I could be branded or even _dead _right now, so I supposed that things weren't going all that badly.

"I don't care," Edward said shortly, and he let go of my hand then, moving up the pathway towards the front door.

"What are you doing?" I asked, even though I knew perfectly well what he was about to do. Maybe if he said it out loud, he'd see that it was a terrible idea.

"I'm breaking in. We need a phone. And a place to sit and breathe for a minute." Edward said it so matter-of-factly that I had to wonder if he had done this before. He was Esme Platt's son—surely he'd never wanted for anything a day in his whole life. I was the daughter of a rich woman, and an even richer man was my stepfather, but Edward's mother eclipsed both of them. I could only imagine what growing up with that much privilege had been like.

Still, he approached the doorway methodically, examining the lock and the wood, as if he knew how to do this. "That's not going to work," Edward muttered to himself, and he left the pathway and moved around the side of the house until he found a window that was low enough to the ground.

But I'd decided this had gone far enough; yes, I wanted out of the cold, but I also didn't think breaking and entering was an appropriate solution. So I told him that.

At first, I didn't think he'd heard me, but then I heard him chuckling as he inspected the latch on frame of the window. "You're a good girl, aren't you, Swan?"

I shrugged, even though his back was to me. "I think you'd be surprised at how bad I am." I made sure that my voice was totally devoid of any reference to the act—or _acts_—we'd spent the last two days indulging in. The sex had been great, but it had been just the once. I didn't want him to think that it was something I expected to happen again. Expectations were messy things. They led to hope, feelings, and ultimately, a whole hell of a lot of hurt.

The truth was that Edward would be a whole lot more surprised at how _not _bad I was. I'd spent my formative years rebelling against what Renee considered "normal" behavior, but that didn't exactly mean I broke any rules that any teenage girl didn't break upon occasion. I toyed with the idea of telling him about the "business" that I'd had with Alice, but I didn't think that Edward Cullen would be very impressed that I'd copied and sold designer clothing.

"Don't tell me you've never done this before," he joked, and I wondered if was covering for his own fear again, but before I could figure it out, the window slid open, and he turned to me, smirking.

"Told you," he said in his insufferable know-it-all voice. "Easy."

"I'm not going in there," I told him, determined to stand my moral ground—sure it wasn't as firm at it had been before, but it did still exist. "The owners could come home and we could be arrested."

"Do you really think being arrested would be such a bad thing? At least if we were in police custody, we'd be safe, and we could get ahold of Carlisle."

I had to admit he had a point. Even if we were arrested, the police were a lot safer alternative than the Red Hands. "Fine," I ground out. "I'll go inside."

"I thought you might see reason," Edward said.

"Don't," I told him warningly as I approached the window. "I'm only doing this because I'm cold, and because you made a whole hell of a lot more sense than you usually do."

"Right." Edward removed the screen and he held out his hands to gave me a quick boost so I could slide into the open window.

"Psychos could live here, you know," I chattered, my voice unnaturally high.

"I'm sure there's a Canadian Norman Bates waiting for you right now," Edward chuckled.

"That's not funny," I insisted, but I laughed anyway, and it felt so damn good to _really _laugh, without shadows encroaching on anything happy.

"Bella," Edward said in mock seriousness, "we can sit here all night, you halfway out the window, or you can climb the rest of the way inside and we can get warm and maybe take a shower and call the police."

"Are you telling me that I have commitment issues?" I retorted as I scooted my butt further into the window and dropped one leg gingerly into the blackness beyond.

"No, darling, that's me. Remember?" He said it with the same joking, _laissez-faire_, tone of voice that I'd adopted, but we both knew he wasn't joking. It was becoming harder and harder for me to remember that Edward _was _Edward, and even if we managed to escape the Red Hands, it didn't mean there was a happily ever after waiting for us. Nothing had really changed.

Partly because I didn't know what to say to that and partly because Edward was right and I couldn't exactly sit on this window ledge all night, I swung my other leg over and dropped as gracefully as I could to the ground.

Luckily, it wasn't far, because it was a whole hell of a lot less graceful than it should have been.

In fact, I literally crashed to the floor. I wasn't hurt, because at least the floor was covered in a nice soft carpeting, but the resounding thump of my body crashing down was enough to make Edward lean over into the room, a concerned look on his face.

"Bella," he hissed, "are you alright?"

"Fine," I ground out, picking myself up off the ground. "The only thing that's wounded is my pride."

My eyes were acclimating to the dark room, and to my relief, it didn't appear as if Norman Bates was present. In fact, the house looked as if it hadn't been occupied in some time. There was a thin coating of dust over everything, and some of the larger pieces of furniture were covered in white sheets. Everything was very tidy, as if it had all been put away and closed up. I crossed the room slowly, making sure not to trip and fall again, and began to look for a light switch.

I heard Edward drop to the floor behind me and slide the window closed. "I'm looking for a light of some kind," I told him, "but the good news is that I'm fairly certain this house isn't currently occupied."

"That makes sense," he said. "This could be someone's vacation house, or a summer cabin for hunting and fishing."

"I hope so. I wasn't exactly looking forward to a very awkward conversation, trying to explain what we were doing breaking into someone's house in the middle of the night."

"We aren't exactly breaking in," Edward said oh-so-reasonably. "We're just borrowing. Appropriating."

"And what exactly are we appropriating?" I asked, finally finding the light switch and praying that the people who owned the house believed in electricity even when they weren't living here. And thank god, light, beautiful, man-made light filled the room. The cabin had always been kept dark, barely lit at all, even in the rooms that weren't the "cell." It had been so long since I hadn't been in dim, dark gloom that it was almost painful to keep my eyes open and let the light flood in, but I did anyway because it was a good, cleansing kind of pain. As if all the shadowy corners were being cleansed of cobwebs.

"Anything we like," Edward said arrogantly, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

"It's not like they have anything here worth taking, really," Edward argued, gesturing to the living room we were in. He was right; it was sparsely furnished with basic, older pieces—as if all the older furniture had been moved up here after it had been replaced by newer, more fashionable models.

Edward had, of course, gravitated over to the rack of CDs on the wall next to the old-fashioned television set. "They don't have bad musical taste though," he said with surprise. "They like arena pop-rock. Especially U2. They have all their CDs."

I felt odd snooping through these strangers' possessions, riffling through their CD collection, so I left the living room and wandered into the kitchen.

If I'd needed more evidence that this was a vacation home not occupied year-round, the kitchen convinced me. There was no food in the refrigerator and it had been wiped clean. The pantry contained some basic canned goods, but nothing else.

The house was small, and besides the living room and the kitchen, there was an attached breakfast nook with an old-fashioned circular oak table, and two bedrooms with a tiny bathroom.

But most importantly, there was a phone on the mustard-colored wall in the kitchen. I picked it up and let out a breath that I hadn't even known I'd been holding. We _would_ get out of this—alive, with skin intact.

I finished my quick tour and returned to the living room where Edward was still examining the rack of CDs as if it was the most interesting thing he'd seen in a long time. As much as I tried, I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt at how he didn't even turn at my entrance.

"Edward," I said more than a little impatiently, "is their musical taste really all that important?"

He still didn't turn, and he didn't even answer me. It was easy enough to see that he was lost in his own world, and nothing I could say would drag him out of it. So I flopped down on the couch with a loud exasperated sigh and waited.

I saw him reach out and pluck a CD off the shelf. I was too far away to see what he'd selected, but I supposed I understood his desire to hear real music again. Music was Edward's crack, and to be without it for so long? I'd known that it must be difficult for him, but I hadn't really ever considered how musically-starved he'd been, locked up in that tiny room.

Edward opened the case and slipped the CD into the player on the bookshelf. He pressed play, and then he turned towards me, a smile peeking out from the corners of his lips.

"Sorry," he said apologetically, and I could see the giddiness leaking out of him, "I couldn't help myself. I figured we could use a musical pick-me-up." The CD had started playing and from the opening chords, I knew, _knew_, what album he'd selected, and then it all made sense.

Edward might be either an asshat or a hero—that was still up for interpretation at this point—but what he did know was his music and there was nothing more perfect for this situation than _The Joshua Tree _by U2.

_I want to run, I want to hide, I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside_.

I wrapped my arms around my chest and let the music seep into my pores, utter exhilaration and the glory.

"Good choice," I managed, trying to keep the sudden tears at bay. It wasn't happiness soaring through me, and not really sadness either—but an odd mixture of both, with an overlay of relief.

"I know," Edward said softly. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

_When I go there, I go there with you. It's all I can do._

I briefly considered telling Edward about the working phone in the kitchen, but the music lulled me, until I thought I could sit here forever, with him, and just listen to the intricate and soaring melodies. The song finally ended and the next song began, but I still didn't move. I was suddenly and inexplicably exhausted, and I didn't know if I could—or even _wanted_—to rejoin the real world again. The music wove its haunting cocoon around Edward and I, and I knew I could stay here forever, with him.

"Someday," Edward said into the fading melodies, "I want to create an album like _The Joshua Tree_."

_I have climbed the highest mountain, I have run through the fields. Only to be with you._

_Only to be with you._

He glanced over at me, then, and I could feel his sudden hesitation. He regretted saying it, expressing his desire to create something masterful and _real_. No doubt he remembered that I'd eviscerated his last album, and he was expecting me to tell him that he wasn't capable of something as timeless as _The Joshua Tree_. But for years, for almost all of my formative years, I had lived and breathed and worshipped at the altar of Edward Cullen.

He might not know it, but the reason I'd written that review was because I believed in him—believed that he was capable of so much more.

"You will," I said with a bone-deep and utterly simple certainty. I'd always known he was capable, but now that he could actually vocalize the desire, it was undeniable that he would do it. Before I'd met him, I'd begun to doubt that he had a backbone at all, any will or drive or desire to create a real legacy, but now I knew that all that crap was just a smokescreen. Deep down, he wanted to be better, to do better things, and I had to believe that this experience would push him to find the inspiration he needed.

_But I still haven't found what I'm looking for_.

He glanced over at me again, this time I could see something new and different in his eyes. It wasn't quite respect—though I was fairly certain he did respect me at this point—and it wasn't quite affection. But before I could really figure out what it was, he stood up from his end of the couch.

"I found the phone," I said in a rush, suddenly afraid of my own response to him. I was honestly terrified that I was falling harder for this man that could possibly be safe. Or sane. "And it works. There's a dial tone."

His eyes met mine as I rose to my feet. "Right," he said hesitantly. "I should call Carlisle. Tell him where we are."

But he didn't move; he just stood there, staring at me.

"Or I could call Renee," I said awkwardly, not at all sure why he wasn't _doing _anything. He still didn't say anything, so I finally took a step towards the kitchen, figuring his silence was an acceptance.

"Wait."

I turned back. He was still staring at me with that inscrutable expression. "Is everything alright?" I asked in confusion. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." Edward paused, running a hand through his hair. "No."

I folded my arms across my chest, knowing I should be understanding, but only feeling annoyed that we were having a discussion that wasn't a discussion at all because as usual, Edward was shit at communication.

"Why did you sleep with me?" The question fell out of his mouth so fast, the words all clumping together, that I barely understood what he was asking. And then, even when I understood, I still didn't _understand_. Not at all.

But he didn't give me even a moment to compose a suitable "what the fuck are you talking about" reply, because he forged on, talking faster, and he was suddenly unable to even look at me at all. "I know you did it because you didn't think you'd ever see me again. You thought that it was it. That it was goodbye."

"It _was _goodbye," I said patiently, still not getting what he was trying to say. The CD had moved onto the next track, the thrumming guitar of the song drifting over my senses.

_See the stone set in your eyes; see the thorn twist in your side. I wait for you._

"I _know _that, damnit," he snapped suddenly. "But. . .but god damn it, Bella. Just tell me. Why did you sleep with me?"

"I don't . . . I don't _know_," I stumbled. "And I still don't get it. You sleep with girls all the fucking time—you know why they sleep with you. Why would I be any different?"

"Because I'm hot and rich and famous? Because I'm a rock star? That's bullshit," Edward sneered. "That's not why you slept with me."

_Sleight of hand, and twist of fate. On a bed of nails, she makes me wait. And I wait without you._

"What do you want from me?" I demanded, suddenly and inexplicably angry that I was being forced into confessing all my reasons for sleeping with him, while he'd always fucked with anything with a pulse.

Edward clamped his lips together, and I could see in the white tautness of his face that he was just as furious as I was. But what he had to be pissed off about, I had no fucking clue. He was the one who was suddenly demanding answers to questions that he'd never cared about before.

"Is it so crazy to think that I wanted to?" I ground out. "Is that so insane? That prim, prissy, Brit Bitch Bella fucking Swan wanted to have sex with the great Edward Cullen?"

He was silent for a moment, for two. My heart thumped wildly in my chest, at the almost feral, angry glint in his eyes. "Yes," he finally said. "It's that insane."

_Through the storm, we reach the shore. You gave it all, but I want more._

"I'm not going to call. I can't call," he continued. "Not yet."

"You're not going to call," I stated, sure that he had finally lost what was left of his mind.

Edward shook his head. "No."

_And I'm waiting for you_.

"I don't understand." And I didn't. I didn't understand this whole fucking conversation and I wanted to throw him back to Aro and Jane at this rate. He'd been so clear that he was Edward Cullen and this was what he did with women, and I had gone along with _all _of that. I had never, not _once_, expected a single thing more. What gave him the right to question me and my motives—I had no idea. Edward Cullen had sex with women all the time, just because they were _there_.

I wondered for a split second if it was because I was different, if he was different when he was with me, but I ruthlessly and instantly cut off that line of thought. If I foolishly thought for even the briefest of seconds that I wasn't like the others, he would rip out my heart and decimate it. And I wasn't about to give him that kind of power over me.

"I don't understand what's happening. But I know that the moment I make the call, this," Edward gestured between us, "is over. Maybe not _over _over, but the world will come crashing in between us, and I'm not ready for that to happen. Eventually, maybe, but not yet."

_I can't live, with or without you._

I closed my eyes in panic and terror. In the deepest, darkest, most secret places, I had wanted him to say that, but now that he had, there was no going back. I was thrilling with the knowledge that it was _me_ he wanted, _me _he couldn't give up yet, and my ego, which had been more than a little downtrodden for longer than I cared to admit, was doing a crazy dance.

"This isn't a good idea." I said it as calmly as I could, but I was sure he could feel the panic in my voice. He'd just blown my emotional grid to bits, and there was no way that I could hide it anymore.

Edward simply nodded. "I know. It's . . .insane. Probably post traumatic stress-induced. But I don't care. I want you."

_My hands are tied, my body bruised. She got me with nothing to win, and nothing else to lose._

I took a single deep breath and tried to calm my racing heart. _This is a good idea_, I tried to convince myself_, this is a fine idea. Just don't—don't_ . . .

But I couldn't pretend it was just sex anymore, and as Edward closed the distance between us, wrapping his arms around me, his fingers weaving through my hair, I bowed to the inevitable.

I was going to fall in love with Edward Cullen.

Edward kissed me, his tongue sliding into my mouth, and we stumbled back towards the couch. I didn't think, could only feel as I straddled his lap and let my hair fall around our faces, shrouding us from the world.

There was nothing, no Red Hands, no Renee, no Esme, no blog, no bad reviews, not even the separate countries of England and Ireland as Edward peeled his shirt off me, and his mouth slid down my neck, to my collarbone, to my shoulder, and then finally to the upper rise of one breast.

"I've been thinking about this," he murmured into the damp heat of my skin, "ever since we did it before."

I briefly considered lying, but then his lips closed over my nipple and the white hot shot of pleasure was like a truth serum injected through my veins. "Yes," I groaned. "Want you."

And then there was no more need for words—I thought that maybe we had moved beyond the time and space where they were even necessary.

There was only Edward, his bare chest, which was surprisingly muscular despite all his years of boozing, and my fingers sliding across it. My gasp as his grip on the naked curve of my waist tightened with the vise of agonizing pleasure that he was forcing on me.

There was even something that might have been tenderness in his eyes as he laid me on the couch, and he rose over me. But then his eyes went wide and shut hard as he slid inside me and I forgot that I was even supposed to be looking.

This time, we moved together easier, and as I caught his rhythm, rougher than before—desperate, needy, passionate—I gasped into his mouth, my fingers gripping his scalp. "More," I insisted, and he kind of panted-laughed at my petulant demand, before capitulating and giving me exactly what I'd wanted until I lost the train of all thought in a shower of sparks that exploded behind my eyes.

When the light faded, Edward was lying on my chest, his expression strangely serene.

"Is that better?" I asked with a smirk.

"Yes," Edward mumbled into my sweat-dampened skin. "And don't ask me to move, because I don't think I could, you slave driver."

I smiled then, the memory of me urging him on fresh in my mind. "I suppose I could be a trifle . . .demanding," I conceded.

"Don't apologize," he groaned as he finally lifted himself off me, and out of me. "I like you just as you are. Demands and all."

"I'll keep that in mind." I couldn't help the flirtatious note in my voice, and the light in his eyes confirmed that he liked it just as much as I did.

Dragging myself up to a sitting position, I laid my hand on his back and rested my head on his shoulder. "Are you ready now?" I said quietly.

Edward didn't say anything, but he inclined his head slightly. "Do you want me to call?" I asked.

"No," he said with long, gusting sigh. "I'll do it." He leaned down and picked his shirt off the floor, tugging it over his head and slipped his boxers and his pants back up.

He stood, his back to me, and finished dressing. I supposed I should do the same, but there was a laziness, a bone-deep satisfaction that made me not want to move-and a strange desire to prolong this interlude as long as possible.

"Bella," he said slowly, as if he was going to say something he was going to regret later. But I couldn't hear it—I didn't want to hear it. I was terrified he was going to punch the hole in my chest now and pull my heart out, still beating, still dripping blood, and pulverize it with his hands.

"No," I said sharply. "Don't. Not now."

"Alright. I guess I'll go make the call then."

"The phone's in the kitchen. On the wall."

He nodded, walking from the living room to the kitchen.

I sat there, on the couch, naked as the day I was born, and listened to him dial, his finger strokes slow and deliberate as he punched each number in. When he finished dialing, I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"Carlisle," he said. "It's me. Edward."

Edward was right, I realized, the world was about to come crashing in, and it would destroy everything we'd built in the last week and a half. Nothing would ever be the same again. We'd created an oasis of sanity in a desert of insanity because there'd been no other choice. If we hadn't, we would have lost our minds.

"We've escaped. Yes. Bella and I."

And suddenly, I wasn't sure I'd done the right thing, sleeping with him a second time. The first time, it had been a novelty born of desperation and the need of bodily comfort. This time, it had been a beast of a different color, and it was a new, different shade. One that I wasn't sure I recognized.

"We didn't get far-we're in a vacation house maybe a mile or two away from where we were held."

I heard Edward's sharp intake of breath. "You're with Emmett?"

"Thank god," he breathed out, so quietly that I barely heard it. "Yes. Ontario. There's an address here-we're on Goose Hollow Lane. Near Bexley."

"You're that close?" Edward exclaimed. "Wow, I guess you were serious. A real rescue attempt."

There was silence for a moment, as Carlisle spoke.

"Yes, we're both fine. She's alright. Shaken but not hurt."

I glanced down, at my bare, intact skin. Outwardly, Edward was right-I was fine-but would the pieces that had shifted inside of me ever return to their original places? Maybe the experience had forever changed me.

I heard Edward hang up the phone with a decisive click and he appeared in the doorway, a real smile on his face. "They're on their way. Maybe half an hour."

It wasn't just the kidnapping and the Red Hands, I decided. It was Edward. I felt imprinted with him; as if his body and his mind and the force of his personality had been pressed into me like a mold. Edward would never realize, never understand, but he hadn't had to brand me to leave his mark. He was inside me whether he wanted to be or not.

"I'll go get dressed." I fled to the bathroom, my clothes in my hands, and I wondered how I could have let this happen.

I had fought against the reality long and hard, but I couldn't deny the truth any longer: I was in love with him.

* * *

**AN: Chapter 24 is titled "The Two Edward Cullens" and a review gets you a teaser. And of course, I will be posting on The Fictionators' Teaser Mondays as well.**

**See you lovelies next Monday!**


	25. The Two Edward Cullens

**AN: Your reviews were extraordinary-as well as your support. I am 99.9% sure that everyone got a review reply; if I missed someone you have my abject apologies.**

**Someone mentioned they were glad to see that this was winding down. Sorry to burst your bubble, but there's quite a lot to go in this story. We're only about halfway through.**

**Thanks to my killer beta, JosieSwan and my pre-reader Izzzy.**

**

* * *

****Chapter 24: The Two Edward Cullens**

**Edward**

I had done shit for years and never once, not even when Esme's face grew hard and I saw the tears in her eyes, or when Rose—or one of the many, many women who proceeded her—begged me to stop whatever it was that I was doing, had I ever felt a single twinge from my conscience. I'd pretty much concluded that I just didn't have one, and the lack was partly to blame for my recklessness towards the people who cared about me.

It was just my way of saying fuck you.

But as I watched Bella walk away, her clothes in her hands, her naked back to me, I felt something in the vicinity of where I'd always thought my conscience might be—if I had one. It was a sick, nearly-nauseous feeling that twisted my stomach, and made me wish that I could take back the last hour, even though I really _didn't _want to. We'd just had great sex. Great sex was an Edward Cullen trademark.

Like douchebaggery.

Like booze.

Like womanizing.

Like apathy.

While we'd been held in that room, I'd instinctually latched onto Bella's goodness, her bravery, her spine of steel, and I'd thought for the briefest of moments that maybe I could actually be _that _guy. The hero. But in the end, I hadn't been able to hack it, and while the skin on her back was beautifully smooth and flawless because of my failure, I still hadn't stepped up to the plate the way that she'd needed me to.

That we'd gotten out at all, skin intact and whole, was due to Jane's particular brand of fucking crazy. I'd done nothing, and more than ever, I knew that I would taint her, ruin her, destroy her, if we kept this up.

Of course, the first thing I'd done after getting out had been to tell her that I wasn't done, and then I'd sealed the deal in a way that only I could.

As much as I hated to admit it, it was such typical Edward Cullen selfish bullshit.

I knew how long it would take Bella to get dressed—after all, I'd just removed those clothes in under ten seconds—and though I wanted to hide from the fact, I knew she was hiding from me. And, I asked myself bitterly, who could blame her?

Glancing backwards at the couch, I briefly considered sitting down again, to wait for Bella and for our rescuers, but my insides rebelled at the thought of sitting where we'd just fucked. Nevermind that I'd used to delight in leaving little "gifts" for Emmett and the roadie crew to find—used condoms and streaks of bodily fluids. All part of the sick joke that was part of the persona of Edward Cullen.

That person felt an empty hollow shell now, bombed from the inside by Niall and his Red Hands, even by Bella herself, but it was all I knew. I didn't know how to be any different. I'd asked her to show me how she saw me, to teach me to be that man that reflected back at me in her gaze. But she hadn't come nearly far enough and I could feel our time together ticking away like a timed bomb.

"Hey." I looked up to see Bella hesitating in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, and from the way her newly brushed hair hung around her face, I could tell something was wrong. She was hiding from me—or from what had just happened. It was hard to tell, and I wasn't sure it mattered either way. I had fucked up big time because I couldn't keep it in my pants, but, I reminded myself for probably the fiftieth time since Bella had decamped to the bathroom, that was what Edward Cullen _did_.

A strange existential question, I decided: if I kept it in my pants, did that mean I wasn't Edward Cullen anymore?

I almost asked her if she was alright, but then I'd spent the past few hours asking that question almost obsessively and at this rate, I'd sprout a pussy, so I clamped my lips together and gave her a short nod. It was classic asshat Edward Cullen-style, but it didn't make me feel any better.

Finally, I broke down and just bit the bullet. Figuratively, of course. After watching Niall in action, I wasn't sure I would ever be really comfortable with violence again. I'd laughed my entire life at violent, gory films, I'd played at kicking ass and had even delighted in running people over in Grand Theft Auto. No more, I vowed. Violence wasn't a fucking joke; in fact, it was the outcropping of violent behavior that had killed my father and had ruined probably my only chance at being relatively normal.

"Are you okay? You seem kind of . . ." I drifted off, not sure exactly what she looked like, just knowing she didn't look _right_. She didn't look like Bella.

"I'm fine," she answered stiffly, which was apparently becoming her rote answer for my question. Why I was even bothering asking, I didn't know anymore... only that I couldn't stop myself. She _had _to be okay, I thought, because the alternative simply wasn't acceptable.

"Carlisle will be here soon," I said, hating the self-conscious awkwardness that suddenly cropped up between us. This was exactly why I usually only fucked girls once, and then they were gone—no attachment, no opportunity for them to figure out that I had nothing to say to them whatsoever.

But this was _Bella_. I knew I had plenty to say to her, I just wasn't sure what it was anymore.

She was eyeing the couch too, much the same way I had, and I wondered if it would be appropriate to make a comment about it, but the sudden tenseness had me shut down like a fucking pussy.

Bella, though, apparently didn't have nearly the qualms that I suddenly did. "Is it wrong," she asked conversationally, gingerly approaching the couch, "that I feel guilty for using their couch?"

When she glanced up into my eyes again, I saw the same Bella that I'd gotten to know over the last weeks—the Bella who made irreverent, snarky, sarcastic comments about everything, no exceptions. I breathed a quick sigh of relief that she was back and tried to push that other girl from my mind. It was pointless to wonder if I had hurt her. I probably had. I was Edward Cullen, wasn't I?

"Well, at least it wasn't the bed," I joked.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I wouldn't have gone there. You, on the other hand . . ."

"What about me?" I asked with faux-innocence.

"You probably have sex on strangers' beds all the time."

I shrugged; she wasn't that far off the mark, and usually, with any other girl, I would have admitted that she was right, but the memory of Bella's withdrawal was too fresh. Even though she had recovered, I felt odd about talking other women with her.

I was still searching for a suitable response that hopefully wouldn't send her back to her emo funk when the sound of gravel crunching under tires and the unmistakable sound of an engine sent my heartbeat into overdrive.

"You stay here," I hissed at Bella, "and I'll go make sure it's Carlisle."

"You're crazy. I'm going with you," she argued, and to my annoyance she followed me into the main hallway. I stopped just shy of the front door, leaning around a corner, staying hidden until I could be certain that the houses' owners hadn't returned.

"I thought I told you to stay in the living room," I said, annoyed that she was so fucking reckless with her personal safety. She bribed men into kidnapping her, and she provoked extremely famous musicians until they wanted to wring her neck. Nevermind that she had almost let herself get _branded_.

I'd been with Carlisle since I was sixteen years old—this was the tenth year of his managing me and Athair—but I had never really understood how much his presence both relaxed and reassured me. He came into view, looking like a Marine on vacation with his olive green combat jacket and jeans, a pair of silver aviators shading his eyes from the early morning sun, and I felt six years old again, waiting for the father who'd never walk through the front door.

My hand wasn't quite steady as I reached out and grasped the door handle. As I opened the door, Bella laid a hand on my back—as if she somehow understood the emotional upheaval I was suffering through.

"Edward," Carlisle said, relief and joy in his voice, "thank god you're safe. And Bella too."

I'd heard somewhere that facing down death changed you, altered you until you weren't who you'd been before the experience. Before my little vacation with the Red Hands, I'd thought this was utter bullshit. You were who you were. No matter if you wanted to be different—it was impossible to change your fundamentals.

But I felt another Edward shifting inside of me, an Edward with a conscience, an Edward who pushed me forward and into Carlisle, an Edward who wrapped his arms around the man who'd practically raised me.

Who'd cared about me when I was pretty much the most unlovable son of a bitch on the planet.

He was understandably shocked at first; after all, I'd never, not _once_, embraced him. But after an awkward pause, he returned the hug, his arms locking around me and squeezing, as if he couldn't actually believe I was right here and he needed physical proof.

I pulled away, and heard a sniffle behind me. I turned and saw Bella crying, tears running down her face in rivers. "Don't mind me," she said airily, between hiccupping sobs, "I'm just kind of an emotional sponge today."

"Just today?" I asked a little sarcastically, and was rewarded by a watery smile and the middle finger.

Carlisle chuckled, and I faced him again. "Your mother will be beyond thrilled to hear you're safe. Yours too, Bella."

"What," she said flatly, coming up to stand next to me. "Renee knows about what happened?"

Bella looked so appalled at the fact that her mother had discovered her kidnapping that I momentarily forgot to argue with Carlisle about Esme's apparent joy at my rescue. Esme probably would have been happier if I'd never been found—then she wouldn't have to keep pretending she didn't have a son.

The information I'd learned from Niall about my parents' relationship before my birth had helped erase a lot of the misunderstandings I'd had about Esme, but I still thought she was a snobby, selfish bitch who thought she knew what was best for everyone. A leopard might change its spots, I thought bitterly, but the Ice Queen would never, ever melt.

"Of course she knows," Carlisle said sympathetically, putting an arm around her as she wiped her eyes. "Esme might be difficult, but she knows how to do what's right."

"Me and my mother, we don't exactly see eye to eye. . ." Bella tried to explain, but Carlisle cut her off.

"I don't think any mother and any daughter in the history of the world has. Your mother loves you, even if she's the latest incarnation of the Wicked Witch of the West."

Bella giggled at this, and I noticed that her tears had stopped. "Enough joking around," he continued, "do you two have anything in the house we need to take?"

"You mean, other than my matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage?" Bella asked snidely, and Carlisle rolled his eyes.

"I see being kidnapped hasn't exactly dulled your sense of humor," he said, and I wasn't surprised to hear relief in his voice. No doubt Bella's ability to crack jokes had convinced him she was really alright, though I supposed I could let him in on a little observation I'd made while locked up with Bella—she joked around about _everything_, and the more snide comments she made, usually the worse off she was inside.

Of course, admitting this to Carlisle would also mean admitting that I'd learned to like her and to an extent, care about her, and that wouldn't work at all. He'd be throwing a parade in the streets of Hyannis Port, and pushing us together any chance he got, and I'd never get an opportunity to figure out what the hell was going on between me and Bella.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Carlisle said as we closed the front door behind us and walked towards the Hummer that sat in the gravel driveway.

Carlisle opened the back door and to my surprise, Emmett was sitting in the backseat, grinning sheepishly.

"Emmett, you bastard," I said conversationally as I climbed in next to him. "Way to skip out before the going got tough."

He shrugged, but I could see the guilt etched on his face. He felt horrible about leaving, even though he'd clearly only done it to save us. "Don't," I said when he started to say something—I was sure it was an apology, and I didn't need to hear it. "We're cool. Just don't ever do it again."

"Of course," he said with relief. "I'd never."

"Then we're good." I held out my hand and he gripped it in that hardcore, Emmett way, until my bones felt pulverized.

Bella slid on the seat next to me, the door closing behind her. "Hello, Emmett," she said, just as casually as I had, but I'd have to be crazy to see the knowing look she flashed my direction. Her assumptions about Emmett had been correct, of course, but I wasn't going to acknowledge that. She was insufferable enough as it was before anyone went and started telling her that she was right.

"Good to see you, Bells," Emmett said. "How're you holding up?"

Bella just shrugged lightly, as if she'd just been gone overnight, instead of locked up for weeks with a bunch of fucking maniacs. "I've been better," she admitted. "But it's so good to finally be heading home."

"We're going to Hyannis Port," Carlisle said from the front seat. I noticed for the first time that the driver was a man that I'd never seen before. The driver was like GI Joe in the fucking flesh, and made Carlisle look like Jimmy fucking Buffett. "This is Marcus," he continued, following my gaze. "Esme hired him to make sure we got you two home safe."

"Much appreciated," I told the driver, who merely humphed in response. It wasn't funny, but I couldn't help but crack a smile at his sour attitude. Esme and him must have gotten along like white on rice.

"Marcus is a little pissed that Aro and Jane were gone before he showed up," Emmett explained. "He wanted an excuse to use his new rocket launcher."

"It's a special kind that doesn't use normal rockets," Marcus explained, "but instead mini-tasers that are designed merely to incapacitate."

"Well, I wish that you'd caught them and used the real rockets," Bella interjected. "Or even better—if I had gotten to use the real rockets. On Jane."

"A bit bloodthirsty, are we now?" I asked, only half-joking. I knew what Bella wanted to do to Jane, if only because I wanted to do the same thing, but worse, to Niall. And he was my fucking _uncle_. If that didn't make me an asshole, I didn't know what did.

"Did she hurt you?" Emmett asked with concern.

"No," Bella said slowly, "but I think she really wanted to."

"She was going to," I clarified, perceiving that Bella was already trying to downplay what had nearly happened to her. "But Jane actually ended up setting us free."

"What?" Emmett exclaimed.

"I couldn't believe it either."

"She said she cared about Aro and that Edward was forcing his grip on reality to slip."

"Well, I will say this. He was a crazy fucker," Emmett muttered. "But I still can't believe Jane let you go."

"She loved him," Bella announced quietly. "And he was hurting. Suffering. She wasn't thinking of us, but only of him."

Bella's words sobered the mood of the car, and I could tell she was similarly affected, even though she didn't break down in tears again. Instead, she turned her head and stared out the window, communicating to me that she needed quiet and to be left alone.

I had done so little that she needed that I gave her what she wanted. I leaned back in the comfortable seat, and found that I was actually more tired than I'd thought. It had been a long time since I'd slept—so long that I didn't even remember when it had last been—and I found myself drifting off to sleep, the non-threatening environment wrapping around me like an old, fluffy blanket.

* * *

I woke up with the blazing sun in my eyes and a vision of something I almost thought I'd never see again—the pale, grandiose walls of the Platt Hyannis Port house. I'd been running from the past almost from the moment I could walk, and yet here I was, back again. I was beginning to wonder if running wasn't just a pointless exercise doomed to failure.

"We're here," Carlisle announced, and I closed my eyes again. It wasn't that I wasn't grateful to be safe or that I didn't want to be home—I just didn't know to face Esme. It had been easier before, when I'd known less and as a result, my feelings were a hell of a lot less conflicted.

"I still can't believe you called Renee," Bella grumbled. She was curled up against the door, and I'd have to be a lot dumber not to notice that she'd deliberately kept herself from sleeping against me. Instead she'd chosen the much harder, much more uncomfortable door to cuddle with. I tried not to be offended and failed.

"She's your mother," Carlisle said. "I know you might not always get along . . ."

"An understatement of the year," Bella interrupted with a big sigh as she opened the door.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Esme and Renee and even Rose gathered at the top of the curved driveway, waiting for us to emerge. For some utterly bizarre reason, facing Esme now felt almost scarier than facing Niall had; I'd been mentally prepared to play the hero and sacrifice myself for the good of everyone else, but just facing my mother sent me into paroxysm of doing absolutely fucking nothing.

Bella, however, seemed to have no such qualms. She slid out of the car, and as she marched up the driveway, the resemblance to her mother was the strongest I'd ever seen. She carried herself with pride and with dignity, wearing a ratty pair of my boxers and a baggy gray hooded sweatshirt three sizes too big as if she was walking down the runway in Paris.

If she could do it, I decided, I could too, and I finally forced myself to exit the car. I ambled up the driveway at a much slower pace than Bella -delaying the inevitable- but of course, Esme didn't wait. She never waited for anyone; she demanded what she wanted, when she wanted it.

Today was no exception.

Somehow I'd never pictured Esme as a young woman, in love and happy. She'd always felt ageless to me, unchangeable, eternal, but today she looked old, almost haggard. And it struck me as we met in the middle of the driveway that maybe the dark circles under her eyes were because of me.

I didn't even know where to begin with her, so I just said the first thing that popped into my head. It was less antagonistic than usual, so I gave myself a little credit for that.

"You were right about the protection thing."

She nodded, her face frozen as always, but her eyes—they were warm, and I thought I could see beginnings of tears.

"I'm glad you're safe," she said quietly. "I couldn't have borne it if you weren't."

"Yeah, I'm pretty glad too. It was touch and go for awhile," I confessed. And that was just about as much as I felt comfortable saying for about the next hundred years.

Esme looked as if she might actually cry then, and I was in the middle of debating if I should just bolt now, avoid the untidy emotional scene I never expected my cold-hearted, closed-off mother would throw, when I heard loud, angry voices, and I glanced around Esme to see that, of course, Bella was also trying to talk to her mother.

Or rather, I corrected, her mother was trying to talk to her, and Bella wasn't having any of it.

Esme turned to see what had me so interested and I swore she rolled her eyes. "Oh no," she said, almost to herself, "it looks as if Renee's put her foot in it again."

"I don't want to talk to you. Now. Tomorrow. In a week. Or even in a year. I told you that we were done, and I meant it." Bella's voice had raised and it had a hard-edged decisiveness to it that I recognized from our time together as the one tone that you didn't cross.

She was all serious business, and we all watched as she flounced right past Renee, who stared at her open-mouthed, and into the house. A petite, dark-haired girl followed her, shutting the front door after them, and Esme turned back to face me.

"Alice will straighten her out," she said with certainty, as If the alternative was not only unacceptable, but unimaginable, and if Alice was indeed one of Esme's new minions, nothing could be truer. "Let's go in the house, I want to talk to you. And you must be hungry. We'll get some food . . ."

Esme, true to form, began to rattle off all the things she just _knew _that I needed: food, a shower, a fresh change of clothes, and of course, a conversation in which I explained and forgave her for every fucking thing she'd ever done to me.

Yeah, that was so not going to fucking happen anytime this century.

"I have to go," I said brusquely. "I'll fend for myself."

"Wait," she said rather plaintively, grabbing at my arm as I tried to walk past her. "Don't."

"Listen. I get it. You're sorry. I'm sorry too. But there's a lot of shit on my mind and I can't deal with any of it, _and _you. So we're just . . .going to have to figure this out later."

Esme wrung her hands together, and I couldn't help but notice that she kept glancing over at Carlisle, who was standing at a distance by the Hummer—but was clearly listening to everything we were saying. "I know. . .I just . . .I want to _help_," Esme said, and to my horror and shock, a tear dripped down her cheek.

I had never once seen her cry—in public or even in private. The Ice Queen act had been flawless and so perfect that it had never once faltered, not in front of me. Not in front of anyone.

Carlisle walked forward now, and as if this was some sort of bizarre, bad LSD trip, he put his arm around Esme and I finally observed the novel experience of having the two most important people in my life present a united front.

Disobeying Esme had never been easy—she'd always been hard as nails—and Carlisle was intimidating in his own free love, wild child way. But the two of them together? I'd never admit it, of course, but it was downright terrifying and I fucking hated it.

"I have to go," I repeated, and without looking back, I skirted around them and practically ran into the house and up the stairs to where my room had been.

I wasn't surprised to see that it hadn't been altered all that significantly, except of course, it was spotlessly clean and all the music posters had been taken down from the walls.

I took a shower first, feeling sinfully indulgent at the sheer amount of hot water that I used, and then I dressed in clean clothes that I foraged from the closet. Thankfully Esme had kept some of my old things—honestly I'd nearly expected her to not just throw them out, but burn them in effigy.

She hadn't. In fact, everything was neatly folded and scrupulously neat. But then, that was what she paid people for. I shouldn't be all that surprised, I decided bitterly, Esme would never hire incompetent staff.

I turned to walk out of the closet, but before I could, a familiar, very battered black case caught my eye. This I was truly shocked she had kept—the very symbol of my rejection of what Esme stood for. But she had, and that added a whole other complicated layer to the whole issue of what to do with her, with the relationship that until a few weeks ago, I'd been certain was fractured and broken beyond repair. I didn't want to, but I understood her a little now, and that meant that it was inevitable we'd revisit all the hurt and all the misunderstandings.

I would. I knew I would have to, but I couldn't do it today. It all felt too fresh inside of me, shifting inside, just underneath the skin, until if someone just looked at me wrong, it might explode and burn us all in the fallout.

I needed to be alone, to remember who I'd been before Emmett had taken me. I needed to know if I could ever be that man again.

Mind made up, I descended the staircase. When I hit the main floor, I hesitatingly glanced around—sure I didn't want to be caught and delayed or worse, stopped entirely—and convinced that everyone was occupied, headed toward the back door and the wide expanse of jewel green lawn that Esme was so damn proud of.

I crossed it hurriedly, deliberately closing my mind, not wanting to think what Esme and Carlisle and even Bella would think when they discovered that I had left.

Reaching my destination, I banged on the door, hoping that he was actually home and that I wouldn't be forced to return to Esme's house.

He opened the door himself. I'd told him for years that he needed to act more the part of who he was, but he'd always refused. He hated servants, he hated nice clothes, he hated the elitist attitude that so many men he knew assumed like it was their due. And not surprisingly, he was dressed in jeans that looked as if he labored for a living, and a stained, ancient white t-shirt.

"Jasper."

His face was mobile and expressive; he'd never been able to play poker all that well, and the shock of seeing me on his doorstep showed.

"Edward, what are you doing here? I didn't know you were visiting Esme."

He opened the door wider and I followed him into the cavernous foyer.

"Jesus, I forgot how big your house is," I said, trying to change the subject. I didn't want to talk about what had happened to me, even to Jasper, who was one of my best friends.

Jasper Whitlock might look like a stupid, white trash hick from Georgia—and at heart he'd always be that guy—but he was way too smart to be distracted. "Seriously. I thought you were sick."

"Sick?"

"That's what everyone's saying. Why you cancelled your tour."

I'd never thought about what Carlisle would have to do to explain my sudden absence, but what he was saying made sense.

"Yeah," I tried joking, "exhaustion a la Lohan. You know?"

Jasper clearly didn't know because he didn't laugh. "Exhaustion?" he asked, eyes narrowing, and I could tell he wasn't buying my lame ass excuse.

I couldn't tell him the whole truth, but I could tell him some of it. "Okay, that's a lie. I'm not sick. I just got . . .sick of it all. I had to get away, run away. So I just left. In the middle of the night. Took off. Went off the grid."

It was a testament to how good of a friend—how good of a _guy_—Jasper was that he tried hard to keep the judgment off his face, but of course, he failed. Jasper was my opposite in so many ways; he hated fame and the obligations and the free passes that came with it. He worked hard to earn his exorbitant salary and had been an extraordinarily dedicated baseball player before his injury, then his early retirement. Still, there was a shadow in his eyes now that hadn't been there before, as if a light had been extinguished and he didn't know what to replace it with. I hadn't spent much time with him since he'd been forced to retire—unlike him, I was a terrible friend—but I had a feeling that he would at least partially understand why I'd done what I did. He wouldn't have before, but he might now.

"Carlisle must have hated that."

An understatement of the century; if I'd actually done what I was telling Jasper, Carlisle would have gone apoplectic. There would have been pieces of Carlisle littered from here to Boston.

"That explains why you're here," Jasper said with a rueful sigh. "He must have dragged you up here so that Esme could berate you too."

"Exactly. And well. . . .you know how well we get along."

"You're hiding," Jasper stated, and I nodded.

"Well, I was just about to order some pizza and settle in for an afternoon of channel surfing. You want to join me?"

Jasper was one of those guys whose loyalty, once it was given, could never be swayed. He'd believe you to the grave, never betray you, and have your back every single damn time. I was pretty sure I didn't deserve that kind of ironclad Southern faith, but I'd take it because I needed it. And, I promised myself, I'd try to somehow be better than I'd been. I needed someone right now, but I had a feeling that he needed someone just as badly.

And his offer of pizza and mindless entertainment? Sounded exactly like what I needed after the last few weeks of fucking batshit crazy.

"Of course," I told him. "But only if you're ordering from that little place in town with the . . ."

" . . .the homemade sausage?" Jasper finished with a grin. "Fuck yes. Why would I ever order something else?"

"I knew I liked you for a reason," I joked, slapping him on the shoulder.

"I'm going to go order. There's beer in the fridge. And I have the new MLB game for Xbox."

"Of course you do," I called out as I headed for the kitchen. It was a huge space, full of stainless steel appliances and terracotta tile. I didn't see why Jasper, who rejected pretty much every other trapping of wealth and prestige, needed a house the size of Rhode Island, but he loved this place. Opening the fridge, I found myself confronted by another decision that before hadn't even been a choice.

There were several six packs of beer in the fridge—Jasper himself wasn't a huge drinker, but liked to have a beer or two with a meal, or on a hot summer day—but he kept it around for the friends who dropped in. I wanted to believe that it wasn't stocked primarily for guys like me, but I knew better. Before the kidnapping, I'd drank like it was going out of style.

I hesitated, glancing at the bottles of water on the next shelf down, and it hit me then. I wasn't sure that I would ever go back to being the guy I was before. An experience like the one I'd been through changed a man, and I felt it, in my bones. I wasn't sure who the hell I was, but what _was _certain was that I couldn't go back and be the Edward Cullen I'd been before.

Decision made, I grabbed a bottle of water for me and one for Whitlock. As an ex-athlete, he drank so much water that I would sometimes joke he was part-fish.

He walked in the kitchen and I handed him the bottle as I screwed my own lid off and took a big gulp. "Water?" he asked, an eyebrow raised. "Did you go to rehab and I missed it?"

I wanted to tell him that I'd just been to the scariest fucking rehab on the planet—that it made Promises and the Cirque Lodge look like daycare—but I kept my mouth shut and just laughed. "It's noon," I said, "why would I want a beer?"

Jasper gave me a look that said I'd lost my mind, and given what I knew of my mental state, he might not be that far from the truth. "Good question," he murmured and we went into the media room, where Jasper flipped on the TV and then the Xbox. "The MLB game alright?" he asked, and I was glad he hadn't suggested the latest Grand Theft Auto or any of the other violent, bloody games we usually liked playing. I wasn't sure I could handle those right now. Usually I hated playing baseball video games with Jasper, mostly because he complained incessantly about the way the game misrepresented the players—most of who he'd pitched against—but today, I'd take players throwing a ball around a field over machine guns and spurting blood.

"Sure," I said, and he looked at me again like I'd lost my mind.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he finally asked. "You seem . . .different."

I just shrugged. "I'm fine," I told him.

"Okay," he said but I was fairly certain that thought I was full of bullshit. Which was really the only thing that was the same between the guy I'd used to be and the guy I'd apparently turned into.

"Oh, I was going to ask you. I thought you'd broken up with Rosalie. What's she doing visiting your mother?"

"Rose?"

"Yeah. Rosalie Hale. I ran into one of her socialite friends the other day, while I was out mowing my lawn."

I rolled my eyes. "This is exactly what I keep telling you, man. You're Jasper fucking Whitlock. You can't mow your own lawn."

Jasper tossed me a controller and I caught it, internally surprised at how good my reflexes suddenly were that I wasn't constantly under a haze of booze. "Regardless. What happened with you and Rose?"

"Don't tell me you're interested," I tried joking again.

"Believe me, I'm not. You know what kind of girls I like."

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes again. This particular discussion was one that Jasper and I had had many, many times before, and no matter what I said, he never seemed to agree.

"You like 'real girls,''" I said snidely. "But for what reason, I have no fucking idea. You could get anyone you wanted."

"Yeah, and most of those girls aren't worth having," Jasper retorted.

I had never agreed with him on this point before, but getting to know Bella over the last few weeks had given me a different side of my own argument. I nearly told Jasper that he maybe wasn't as far off as I'd thought he was before, but then I decided against it. He already thought that my little escape had changed me—he didn't need to know just how much.

I stayed with Jasper all day, even as dusk fell, and the living room grew dark. We ate pizza, swore loudly at the video game, and I learned more about the game of baseball than I'd ever wanted to know.

Finally, I crept back over to Esme's house, sure I was going to have to stop them from sending out another Search and Rescue team. To my surprise, the house itself was dark, and I didn't encounter anyone as I crept back up the stairs, until I opened my bedroom and flipped on my light to see Bella sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of my bed.

"Hello there," she smiled at me. "Did you have a nice afternoon?"

I froze in the doorway, sure that this was some sort of trap. In about five seconds, red flashing lights would start screaming, and I'd get tackled by a SWAT team led by Esme and Carlisle.

"I did," I said cautiously, shutting the door behind me. "Did you?"

"I took a long nap. Had some lunch. Went shopping in town with Alice and Rosalie. She's actually really nice."

"Rosalie Hale? Nice?" I stuck my hands in my pockets and ambled towards the bed, wondering if it would be terrible outré to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing in my bedroom.

It wasn't that I didn't like her there—in fact, I liked her there a lot more than I was comfortable admitting either to her or to myself—but I wanted to know _why _she was there. Did this mean that she liked me too? I felt like the lamest idiot on the planet, but I suddenly wondered if she really did. Girls liked the outside wrapping of Edward Cullen. I was fairly certain that nobody had ever really liked _me_ before, but that was my own damn fault because I'd never let them see it.

I'd let Bella in, and she hadn't ran away. That had been me, I reminded myself ruefully, though I was back now, and weirdly enough, she didn't seem pissed.

"She is," Bella argued playfully, a big smile on her face. "She hates Renee almost more than I do. So we had something in common right away. That was enough to actually persuade me to go shopping with them. That, and I was trying to avoid Renee."

"I don't get it. You're not mad," I stated. "Are you the only one?"

"Why would I be mad?" Bella asked, a frown crinkling her forehead.

"I left," I said incredulously. I felt like a bank robber the moment before the alarm goes off.

But Bella just shrugged. "Carlisle said that you'd need time away, to process. He said you'd be back. And here you are."

I hated how well Carlisle knew me. Better even than I knew myself.

"Esme said you went to your friend's house," Bella continued. "Is that where you went?"

I thought of Jasper and how much he'd like Bella—a normal, funny, smart, well-adjusted girl. She was exactly the kind of girl he was always telling me that I'd like if I gave one of them half a chance.

"Yes," I said

"Good. I think you needed it." Bella untucked her legs from underneath her and slid off the bed. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I'm going to bed."

I didn't realize just how much I'd liked the thought of her waiting for me, not just to make sure I was fine, but because she wanted to be with me just as much as I secretly wanted to be with her, until she was about to leave.

"Wait," I said, reaching out and wrapping an arm around her waist. "Where do you think you're going?"

Bella gave me her patented, "what the _fuck _do you think I'm doing?" look. "I told you, I'm going to bed."

"You're sleeping here," I told her. I realized about a second after the words faded from the air that I should have _asked_, instead of _telling_, but it was a little late to retreat, so I emphasized my insistence by giving her a solemn, "you'd better do what I want if you know what's good for you" stare.

She hesitated, and I knew it was because she really _wanted _to stay, but that ridiculous independent streak was giving her all sorts of arguments about why she shouldn't—just because I hadn't given her any choice.

Since I was already half-way in, I figured that I might as totally commit. I leaned down and kissed her, hard and passionately, letting her know the only way I could that I'd been thinking about her all day. "Stay," I repeated as I ended the kiss. "I want you to. You want to."

She sighed, and I could sense that I'd defeated her better judgment. Score one for Edward Cullen.

"Alright," she said, reluctantly, as if she didn't want me to know just how much she was dying to let me take her again. And we both knew better than that.

* * *

**AN: I know a lot of you have been dying to see Jasper again, so I was really happy to be able to re-introduce him earlier than I thought :)**

**Next chapter is tentatively titled "Flight-or Fight?" And remember, a teaser for every review!**


	26. Flight or Fight?

**AN: I think I got everyone a review reply and a teaser for this chapter-again, if I missed you, I apologize-ffnet doesn't keep track of who I've replied to and who I haven't. And _another mea culpa _for posting this on a Tuesday instead of on Monday. I don't suppose it would make any difference if I said it was the Gossip Girl premiere last night? No? I didn't think so :)**

**Playlist is updated, one song on the regular list and another with a youtube link. Both great songs, you should check them out!**

**As always, thanks to JosieSwan, my fantabulous beta, without who I have been making ZERO progress on the next chapter, and Izzzyy, who is the greatest pre-reading cheerleader I could hope to have.**

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**Chapter 25: Flight—or Fight?**

**Edward**

My edict that Bella stay with me apparently didn't extend to the morning, because when I woke up, she was gone. I told myself that I understood why she'd left—I wasn't just any guy; I had a past, a reputation that wasn't exactly savory, and she wouldn't want everyone to discover that we were sleeping together.

But no matter how much logical sense it made, it _still _bothered me. If I'd had feelings, they definitely would have been hurt.

I rolled over, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Typical Edward Cullen behavior, I thought with a bitter edge, sleeping until the afternoon. Maybe it made more sense than I'd realized that Bella had abandoned me. I might want to sleep until 2 in the afternoon, but I didn't think that was like her.

Bella was a "get up and gone things done" type. She kept semi-regular hours, probably went grocery shopping, paid her bills, went to the gym, and sat in her apartment with Alice watching shows like _True Blood, _and arguing over whether Sookie should end up with Bill or Eric.

_Normal _things.

I wouldn't know normal if it came up and kicked my ass.

I got up and showered, dressing quickly without looking once at the guitar that sat in the closet. If I thought about it, or what it could mean, I'd never hold it together.

I was barely holding it together as it was. In fact, the only time I felt marginally alright was when I was wrapped around Bella; it wasn't because she was a girl, and I liked having sex with her... it was because it meant I could feel something other than the sheer, terrorizing panic that I no longer understood who I was.

Instead, Bella felt like the glue that was holding the pieces of me together.

I snuck down the stairs for the second day in a row. I knew I would be way too lucky to avoid everyone again, and I knew I couldn't go to Jasper's again. But that didn't mean that I couldn't leave.

I'd just made it down the stairs when I heard the voice behind me.

"Running away again?"

It was Carlisle, of course.

"You're way too good," I admittedly sheepishly, hating that I felt almost _ashamed _by what I'd been doing. I'd run for years before this, whenever I wanted, however I wanted, and nobody had ever been able to make me feel guilty for doing it. I was Edward Cullen, after all, and I went wherever the fuck I wanted, whenever the fuck I wanted.

But, like everything else, I seemed to have gotten in touch with the part of me that felt it necessary to take responsibility for my actions and it was becoming clearer why I'd never done it before—it really sucked ass.

"You were waiting for me," I stated, as we walked into the kitchen. I opened the fridge, and pulled out a carton of orange juice.

Carlisle shrugged. "Esme's got a lot of pride. She's not going to lie in wait for you and force you to talk to her."

"She used to."

"That was then. This is now." Carlisle didn't say the reason she no longer waited was because I'd purposefully hurt her so many times in an attempt to get her to stop caring, but we both knew the truth. He'd hated what I'd done then, and I knew his feelings hadn't changed.

The only feelings that had changed were my own, and reaching for a glass in a cupboard, I felt that now-familiar stab of guilt.

I poured the orange juice, but didn't drink. I just stared at it, wishing that it was some sort of potion that could either turn back time or turn me back into the kind of person that I knew—the kind of person that I recognized.

I decided to stick to facts. That had worked alright with Esme yesterday. "Jasper said you cancelled the tour and told everyone that I was sick."

Carlisle nodded. "It seemed like the best choice. After all, I didn't think that advertising you were kidnapped by your late father's nutjob paramilitary terrorist organization was a very good idea. Plus," he added, almost as an aside, "Esme would hated everyone knowing the truth."

"About her and my father," I clarified. I wasn't stupid enough to really believe that she gave a shit about what people thought of me. I'd done an excellent job tearing my reputation to shreds until there was nothing left. The only reputation that was left to save was Esme's, and I knew how much she cared about preserving it. So much so, that even if I hadn't been a complete and total jackass to her on purpose, she probably would have distanced herself from me to save it.

"If that's what you want to believe," Carlisle said calmly, "but I think you'll find that Esme isn't exactly what you believe she is."

I rolled my eyes. It was just like Carlisle, to believe in the best of everyone—even of a woman who'd patronized, judged, and generally been everything hateful to him for the totality of their acquaintance.

"She's grateful I'm back, that I'm alive, _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_," I said, digging down deep to find the same nasty voice that I'd used so effortlessly before. "But once she realizes she didn't have to plan a funeral and a wake for me, she'll return to being vaguely annoyed at my presence."

Carlisle shook his head. "You're wrong. She was so terrified you'd be hurt or killed. I've never seen her so upset."

"As upset as when she learned the tablecloth linens are ivory instead of ecru?"

Carlisle gave me his stern look as I finally picked up my glass of juice and drank it down. "I've given you a lot of slack where Esme is concerned over the years that I've managed you, but no more. You _will _treat her with the respect and the deference and the _loyalty _that she deserves as your mother. I won't accept anything less. That means the nasty remarks and the snide comments stop now."

As Carlisle's pronouncement detonated in the silence of the kitchen, I began to wonder if I wasn't the only one who'd been irrevocably altered by this experience. Carlisle seemed different too—and not just different because I was—but stronger somehow, as if he'd rediscovered the determination of his convictions.

"Fine," I said shortly. Carlisle was the one man I'd always hated arguing with. "Now where is everyone?" I didn't want to mention Bella by name because it would instantly alert him to her importance, and I wasn't ready to face that line of questioning yet. I didn't know how she could possibly fit in with my life, or even if she would want to.

After all, if I couldn't even decide who I was, how on earth could I decide what she meant to me?

"I believe the girls are out on the patio by the pool."

"The girls?"

"Rose and Alice, of course, and they're with Bella. And I believe that Renee and Esme have joined them. Emmett went for a jog."

"I don't understand," I said. "Esme's by the _pool_? Is there some party that we're having that I'm not aware of?"

Carlisle shook his head, and I felt another mini-explosion rock my preconceived notions. "She likes spending time with the girls," Carlisle added, by way of explanation. "I think they help relieve some of the burden of being . . .well. . .of being her."

"I didn't realize she wanted to relieve the burden. I thought she loved being Esme Platt." I barely managed to keep my tone of voice civil. It had been barely two minutes since Carlisle's edict, and I supposed it wouldn't hurt me to keep it for at least twenty-four hours.

"Again, I think there's a lot of things that you don't know about Esme."

The whole conversation had been so bizarre that I hadn't caught on to the strangely proprietary way that Carlisle kept referring to her until now. And once I heard it, I instantly knew what it meant, though I was sure I _had _to be wrong. There was no _way_ Esme would ever do that. Right? But then, if I wasn't wrong, then Carlisle would be right—I clearly hadn't known her as well as I thought I had.

"So it's like that, then," I said, sticking my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. "I mean, I always knew that you had a soft spot for her, no matter how much she abused you, but I never thought . . ."

It felt pretty good to see a look of mild panic descend over his features. He'd controlled almost this whole conversation, which wasn't like us—I wasn't exactly feeling like myself—but now, I had him where I wanted him.

And then, to my surprise, he pulled himself up, straightening his back and he looked me right in the eye. "I'm in love with her. And I'm pretty sure that in time, she'll come to love me too. Does that bother you?"

Fuck, I didn't know if it bothered me. I could barely wrap my head around the idea that Esme could even _love_, never mind that she could fall in love with Carlisle.

Emotions in general made me uneasy, but I told myself that love was so far out of my realm of experience that I wasn't exactly qualified to give my opinion on this. So I just shrugged, and said, "Whatever makes you two happy."

Carlisle's eyes narrowed, as if he could read my mind and he knew why I was giving my approval, but he dropped it and changed the subject. "So, I have to admit, I was a little surprised when I met Bella. After Renee . . ."

"They're not really all that alike inside, but as soon as she told me who her mother was, I couldn't believe I didn't see it before." I relaxed, feeling like we'd moved to a subject that I could discuss without something inside of me getting tight and anxious. A second glass of orange juice downed, I opened the fridge again, and began combing the shelves for food.

"You mean you saw a resemblance between them?" Carlisle sounded confused, which was bizarre. It was so _obvious_—in the curve of their necks, in the slopes of their faces, in the shape of their eyes. They looked exactly the same, practically.

"Of course I did," I told Carlisle in exasperation.

"You know, they don't look all that much alike to me . . ." Carlisle began, but I cut him off.

"Then you're fucking blind. She's beautiful. They're both beautiful. Though Renee's clearly been on the plastic surgery wagon. Nobody looks that good and has a 24 year old daughter." I pulled bagels from the hutch and tore one open.

"Uh huh. So. . .I have to ask. Are you and her . . ."

This was the question that I'd dreaded hearing, and I realized that maybe Carlisle hadn't been changing the subject after all. He'd moved straight on from his relationship to what he thought of mine. I stayed silent, sticking the two halves into the toaster. I pushed down the lever probably harder than was necessary and it squawked in protest.

"I saw the way you looked at her. It was hard to miss."

"It's nothing," I said, but it felt so wrong to lie about it that I immediately backpedaled. "Well, that's not exactly true. It's not. . .nothing. Not exactly. But I have no idea what it is, so don't try to get a label out of me."

"Yes, because you're such a fan of labels," Carlisle said sarcastically. "I think Rose is still trying to recover from your lack of labeling ability."

Of course, he had to bring Rosalie into it. "I'm not proud of what happened with her," I admitted, "but it appears to have turned out alright in the end."

"Emmett's a good guy."

I nodded, and taking a deep breath, I turned to get a plate and to tell the one person who could maybe understand what I was going through. He probably knew, anyway. Carlisle was ridiculously perceptive, and he'd known me for a long, long time.

"I feel different. I don't know if I'm changed or anything. But I do know that I'm feelings things that I've never felt before. Guilt. Shame. I'm embarrassed at a lot of shit that I've done."

The kitchen was so quiet, the only sound the crumby rustle of the bagels in the toaster. Carlisle didn't say anything right away, and I wanted so badly to turn around, to see what his expression was, but I was too chicken shit. It was one thing to face down Jane or even Niall, but as much as I hated to admit, I discovered that I cared about what Carlisle thought of me. I wanted to him to understand that I regretted the way I'd been, that the kidnapping had given me perspective and the ability to take a hard, clear look at myself.

I hadn't liked what I'd seen.

"Did you ever wonder why I never gave up? Left? Quit? Because you were so damn talented, and I kept hoping that you would figure this shit out. I hate that you had to go through what you did, but maybe something good can come of it."

The bagels popped out from the toaster. I grabbed one, swearing under my breath as it scorched the tips of my fingers. I couldn't avoid turning around any longer, and I glanced up as I reached for the cream cheese that was on the counter in front of Carlisle. He was smiling, not smugly, but as if he was genuinely glad for me.

"I _hate _it. I wish I could go back."

I'd been an asshole, but it had been easy, simple, and straightforward to be an asshole. It was a hell of a lot more complicated to be a good guy. Not that I was necessarily _good_, but I wasn't as bad as I'd been. The drive to be that guy had been driven and scared right out of me.

"You can't."

I hated the finality of his voice, as if he was already anticipating the man I'd be because of this. And fuck if I was going to be anybody other than what I was. "Don't expect me to go all Mary Poppins on you now," I snapped. "I'm not _that _different."

But Carlisle didn't seem shaken by my abrupt shift, and as I slathered cream cheese on the bagel, he leaned against the counter. "I think we should keep the tour cancelled," he said casually. "Give you some time. You'd been driving yourself pretty hard before, and well . . .nobody could blame you for needing some time after what you've been through."

I shrugged. "Either way. I don't really care. But you already cancelled the tour. Everything's taken care of. Might as well just leave it."

"You only had a few more dates anyway. And what about the studio?"

I remembered then that the plan had been to head straight to the recording studio after the tour ended, so I could write a new album that theoretically would put the bad taste of _Aiming to Misbehave _out of everyone's mouths.

I could do this, I told myself; I could be Edward Cullen. Just the same way I'd been before, just without the revolving door of women and the constant alcoholic haze.

Besides, how was I really different? I was just Edward Cullen with a smidgen of conscience now, instead of none at all.

But before I could answer Carlisle, Bella walked into the kitchen, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her beautiful face, a filmy white wrap covering—but not quite _covering_—up the red and white polka-dot bikini she was wearing underneath. I froze, and it all came roaring back.

She stopped up short, clearly not expecting to see me in the kitchen, or to be interrupting a discussion between me and my manager. "Oh sorry," she said awkwardly, "I didn't mean to intrude."

"Bella," Carlisle said warmly with a genuine note of welcome in his voice, "don't worry about it. Edward and I were just discussing his new album."

Carlisle didn't know Bella like I knew Bella, and he missed how those gorgeous brown eyes of hers narrowed from wide-eyed innocence to calculating, intense interest. I didn't, however. I just hoped that Carlisle wouldn't bring up _Aiming to Misbehave_, because Bella was like a piranha after a particularly tasty human morsel when it came to that particular subject.

"A new album?" Bella asked with interest.

"Bella's a music blogger and an Athair fan," I explained.

"And how was it, being imprisoned with the lead singer?" Carlisle asked.

"It was . . .educational," Bella said with a teasing glint in her eye, and just like that, I wanted to drag her away from the kitchen, away from Carlisle and anyone who could ruin this—which was pretty much everyone on the whole fucking planet, myself included.

"I'm surprised he told you anything," Carlisle said as he rolled eyes. "He's ridiculously close-lipped with the press. Refuses to share."

"Oh, I can be fairly persuasive," Bella said sweetly, sending me a scorching look far too reminiscent of how she looked just last night, her hair falling around our faces as she rode me to a blistering orgasm.

I couldn't help it, though I had no idea where it even _came _from—because god knew I'd never done it in my life—but I blushed. A real, true blush; a scorching, neon red that made even Carlisle look at me like I'd just lost my mind. Because let's face it, if he hadn't realized before now what was going on with Bella, he'd just figured it out.

Even Bella was staring at me in a different way, as if she was really seeing me for the very first time—and for a single beat, then for another, nobody moved or said a word. The color faded from my cheeks, but I didn't know what to say.

I felt naked and unbearably exposed.

"Well," Carlisle finally said quietly, "I can certainly see that you can be."

Bella's short, dark-haired friend made her appearance in the kitchen, at possibly the most inopportune moment. "Bella," she started to say, and then froze, clearly understanding she'd walked into something she didn't understand.

I didn't pretend to understand it either—I only knew that we'd given ourselves away to Carlisle, and I would have to explain that this wasn't the same. I didn't know what it was yet, but I did know it couldn't be the same.

I wasn't ready to explain it, I was pretty fucking sure that I couldn't, so I did what I'd always done best: evasion. "Perfect timing," I said with a big smile in the girls' direction, "I was just about to suggest that we go out tonight. Celebrate."

"And what are we celebrating?" Bella asked curiously.

"Life," I said shortly. I didn't want to come out and say that I was pretty damn pleased that I hadn't become Niall's bitch and she hadn't been branded like a animal, but that was what it came down to. Plus, I'd decided that I would have to figure out a way to involve Bella with my life. I wasn't the same, but I wasn't that different either, and the best way to understand how she fit in would be to take her for a trial run.

No, I thought with sudden clarity, it wouldn't be her I'd be taking for the trail run-it was the new version of my life that I was testing out.

"That could be fun," Bella's friend said, with a bright smile in my direction.

"You should invite Rose. And Emmett, of course," I told her, trying to telegraph that I wanted to be alone with Bella. Carlisle would understand; he'd spent years being dismissed by my presence so that I could charm some female out of her clothes.

I didn't want to charm this particular female out of her pants—but only out of the logic that was as much a part of her as her bones or her skin. Already, a pucker had begun to form between her eyebrows and I could see the hesitation in her eyes. She didn't want to go, that much was clear.

"I'll go let Rose know," Alice said wisely, turning around and walking out of the kitchen. Carlisle gave me a single hard, searching look, as if he was trying to understand what had happened to the person he knew so well. He could look, I thought, but he wouldn't exactly find him anymore.

When Carlisle was gone, Bella turned to me, a frustrated look on her face. "What is going on with you? We're going out? To _celebrate_?"

"We're not dead. You aren't branded. I'm not in eternal servitude to a terrorist organization. I think we came out alright. There's nothing wrong with celebrating that."

"Don't you think that it's a bit. . .callous?"

"We're fine," I told her, more than a little exasperated. Didn't she get it? I needed to do this—I needed to do _normal _things, things that Edward Cullen did, so I could figure out what was left of me. And once I'd determined what was missing, I could go about trying to fill the holes.

With what exactly, I wasn't sure. But I sure as hell couldn't stay like this forever—eternally a piece of Swiss cheese.

"You can go," she said dismissively, "but I don't want to go."

This totally defeated the purpose of the outing in the first place, but even more than that, I discovered that I didn't want to go without her.

"I'd really like you to," I said calmly.

"I don't feel comfortable with it. I'm sorry," Bella said stiffly, and I couldn't help but wonder for a moment if her reluctance was because she didn't want to be seen publicly with me—if she didn't want anyone to find out that we were involved.

"Fine," I growled. Didn't she see that I was trying to make an effort? It was just like her to throw it back in my face. Clearly the truce we'd come to the night before our escape was only temporary. Maybe I was insane to think that we could ever have made it work between us.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but at the last moment changed her mind, because instead of speaking, Bella whirled around, the white translucent fabric of her wrap floating out around her, and she marched out of the kitchen.

* * *

**Bella**

"I don't get it, Bells. You should be coming with us," Alice chattered, as she sat at the ivory claw-footed vanity and applied mascara to her lashes.

"I have a headache. I'm tired. And you know it isn't my kind of scene," I said shortly, not looking up from loose thread on the duvet cover I was picking at.

"That isn't true; I've been to the place we're going with Rosalie, and we had a good time. Not only would you enjoy yourself, it just doesn't feel right to leave you here."

I clamped my lips together and struggled to keep a neutral expression on my face. I couldn't exactly tell Alice that I was in love with Edward Cullen, and that was why I couldn't go with him to the club and watch him return to exactly the kind of person he'd been before we met. I'd always known he would, of course, which was why I'd fought so hard against falling for him—it could only end badly, after all—but I also hadn't thought that I'd have to watch him while he did it.

"I feel like you're punishing yourself. What I can't figure out is what you're punishing yourself for," Alice said softly, and I glanced up to see her eyes steadily watching me in the mirror. I figured it would only be a matter of time before Alice discovered that Edward and I weren't just friendly acquaintances, and I was trying to postpone that moment as long as possible.

"I'm not," I argued. "It's not about that at all. I just don't want to go."

"Bella," Alice said with exaggerated patience as she rose and walked over to the bed, wrapping her navy blue silk robe tighter around her midsection, "I know you're lying. Please tell me what's bothering you."

I wanted to, but the love and the fear and the emotions that I'd been struggling with were bottled up so tightly that if I let even a bit of them slip, then they'd all come crashing out like a tsunami. And I couldn't afford to let go like that—not while Edward was under the same roof. He was way too perceptive, and my worst fear was that he'd discover how I felt about him. So far, I'd managed to play him off with a breezy, casual affection, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he penetrated my defenses and discovered that the feelings I had went far, far deeper than a mere fancy.

I didn't speculate about what would happen at that juncture, because I knew.

"There's nothing wrong," I insisted.

"It's him, isn't it?" Alice said, settling down beside me on the bed.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I tried to brush it off, but I wasn't a good actress under the best circumstances, and I'd used all my energy to cover in front of everyone else. There was simply nothing left in my reserves for this performance and I knew it. Even worse, Alice knew it.

"You can stop pretending around me. I know you—better than anyone else, remember? You're my best friend," Alice said softly, and to my horror, I saw her eyes glisten with tears. If she started crying, I'd never be able to hold it together. I was already failing, the wall holding the flood back crumbling in the face of her love and concern. Swallowing hard, I looked down at the duvet again.

"I can see how you fell for him. Really, I can. He's not what I expected at all, and he's surprisingly sweet with you. And maybe . . ."

" . . .and maybe what?" I finally demanded, my voice cracking as I looked back up at her. "He'll fall in love with me too? Don't be ridiculous, Alice. He's not a wild animal that needs to be domesticated." A tear fell out of my eye, and I gritted my teeth. "You have to understand. I know how this is going to end, and I can't be there and watch him . . .I just can't. Not after everything."

Alice reached out and gripped my hands in hers. "Emmett told me a little of what you went through, of how strong you were. And the thing is, I never doubted your bravery, Bells. I always knew you could be so unforgiving in the face of something that awful. You're the strongest person that I've ever met. And that girl, she wouldn't ever run away, she wouldn't ever wave the white flag."

She didn't get it; it wasn't a white flag. It was sheer self-preservation.

"I know you think you're protecting yourself by doing this—by never giving him a chance to be the guy you need him to be. But maybe he's changed too. Emmett told Rosalie that he was worried about you while you two were locked up, that he made sure that nothing happened to you. Maybe the foundation's in there, you just need to give it a chance to grow."

I laughed, a bitter, melancholy sound echoing harshly in Esme's beautiful blue guest bedroom. "It's temporary," I told her, "a temporary insanity. It'll pass."

"So you're just going to give up then, without trying." Alice said it a little scornfully, and I knew I'd lost of little of her respect, but what other choice did I have? One didn't willingly go into the wolves' den and then expect to come out alive and unharmed.

"Did you ever think," Alice said, sliding off the bed and returning to the mirror before the vanity, "that maybe your certainty of how this is all going to go down isn't about your fear that he'll ditch you, but your fear that he _won't_?"

With that last bomb, Alice turned back to the mirror, and started mussing with her hair, as if she hadn't said the one thing that could really make me rethink my decision.

Maybe, I thought—and for the first time, I let myself go down that particular path—maybe he _had_ changed. An experience like that would change anyone. He certainly had been sweet—desperately wanting to save me, to play the hero, and even to prolong our time together before Carlisle came.

And then there was last night, where'd he possessed with me with such a passionate ferocity that I couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just _maybe_, he wanted this as much as I did.

I looked up into Alice's reflection, suddenly and resolutely decided. I would give him the opportunity to be the man that I knew he could be. The rest would be up to him. "I'll go," I said. "But for the record, if this goes south, it was all your idea."

"Of course it was. Now what are we going to dress you in?"

I rolled my eyes. "I know you're all fashionista these days, but really, you know me. Jeans and a t-shirt. That's fine for me."

"Actually, it's not," Alice said mischievously, tilting her head and examining my reflection behind her. "The club has a dress code. But don't worry—you'll still be you. Not Groupie Bella and certainly not Kidnapped Bella either. I think it's time for Edward to meet the _real _Bella Swan."

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**AN: As always, a review = review reply + teaser for chapter 26, which is currently tentatively titled "Gold Guns Girls." **


	27. Gold Guns Girls

**AN: Your reviews blow me away. Thank you all for taking this journey with me and with the characters. *big smooches all around***

**Lots of music this chapter-starting with Metric's song, "Gold Guns Girls" which is what I quote at the beginning. Later, there's a trio of Dropkick Murphys songs which I highly encourage you to listen to (they're my version of Athair): "Flannigan's Ball," "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced," and "Tessie" (the lyrics quoted later on are from "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced"). Playlist is updated, of course.**

**Thank you to JosieSwan, beta extraodinaire, and Dixie, who is planning on writing the most hilarious parody of SotF-her ideas are better than mine could ever be :)**

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**Chapter 26: Gold Guns Girls**

_I remember when we were gambling to win_

_Everybody else said better luck next time_

_I don't wanna bend like the bad girls bend_

_I just wanna be your friend; is it ever gonna be enough?_

**Bella**

As much as I wanted to think she was dumb as a post, Renee could occasionally have a flash of brilliance—she also had the senses of a dog, and could sniff me out even when I was trying to avoid her.

"Isabella, you've been avoiding me." Her voice was reproachful as she approached behind me, as I stood in my bedroom, examining my reflection in the full length mirror. I hadn't wanted her to see me like this, because it would only encourage the kind of thinking that led to stylists and runways and self-centered, narcissistic models.

I grimaced, enjoying the way that my face contorted in the mirror and Renee's resulting frown. "Your face might freeze like that . . ." she began, but I didn't let her finish.

"I don't care," I snapped. I didn't care if I was ugly— after all, when you had the best plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills on permanent retainer, everyone was ugly in comparison.

"Regardless," Renee continued, the tightness in her voice betraying just how close she was to losing her temper, "you look lovely."

I tilted my head and tried to find what she saw, what Alice saw, even what Edward saw when he'd told me how strongly I resembled my mother. Even though I could admit that done up like this, in the midnight blue Hervé Leger dress that hugged every curve, and my hair falling in disordered but sleek waves around my face, I could pass as being cute. Maybe even pretty.

It was a good thing, I thought, that I'd decided a long time ago that the outside wrapping wasn't nearly as important as inner substance. Otherwise, I'd have spent my life disappointed that I hadn't won the genetic lottery the way Renee had.

"Thank you," I said stiffly. "And you're right, I've been avoiding you. So if you could leave, I'd really appreciate it."

"Did Alice pick this out for you?" Renee asked, fingering the ends of my hair.

I shook my head, annoyed despite my good intentions not to let her bother me. Why was it that everyone that just because I liked wearing jeans that I didn't have any style? I just didn't _care_ about having style. But tonight, I'd decided not to go quietly, and to do that, I needed to make a statement.

Jeans, as much as I loved them, weren't exactly statement material. A bandage dress? That was a different story.

"Alice tried to help me, but she annoyed me so I made her leave," I finally said.

"She's got great style," Renee informed me—as if I didn't know this. I'd also have to be deaf not to hear the insinuation in her voice; Alice might have great style, but I definitely didn't.

Tough shit, I thought, going back to my reflection, I was happy with the way I looked tonight. There was just enough Bella in this that I didn't feel like a stranger was looking back at me.

"We need to talk about what happened before you . . ." Renee started out strong, but then hesitated, and then finally stopped.

"Before I got kidnapped? Yeah, I don't think that's going to be happening. And as much as I'd _love _to have a heart to heart right now, I'm running late." Dismissing her with my voice, I smoothed down my hair one more time and turned to leave, my heels clicking on the floor. Even with their boosted height, I still wasn't as tall as Renee and I hated that I'd have to crane my neck to meet her gaze. So I didn't even try; I just looked straight ahead and walked away.

She'd be angry, no doubt, but anger seemed to be Renee's typical emotion when confronted by her uncooperative and belligerent daughter.

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I wasn't sure if the surprise on Edward's face as I descended the staircase and met the rest of the group at the bottom was because of the way I looked or just because nobody had told him that I'd changed my mind and was coming after all.

"Bella," Alice squealed as I hit the final step, "you look _gorgeous_. Did someone help you? Renee? Rosalie?" She glanced around, as if someone would step up and claim the style I was wearing as their creation, but nobody did. I tried very hard not to grind my teeth together as Alice's eyes widened when nobody stepped forward.

"No," I snapped. "Believe it or not, I actually picked this out myself." I loved Alice—she was my best friend after all, and the only family that I actually liked—but I was really beginning to hate the preconception that everyone had about me. Just because I didn't _care _about fashion or talk about it constantly or chose to wear jeans and sneakers didn't mean that I wasn't competent of styling myself halfway decently.

"Well," Edward cut in smoothly, apparently having recovered the gift of speech, "I think you look lovely. Not as lovely as you did in my boxers and that sweatshirt, though." The edges of his lips turned up in a smirk and I couldn't help but smile in response, no matter how annoyed I was at my mother and at Alice.

I didn't know how much Edward had told everyone about what had happened between us, but I knew the cat was partially out of the bag when we walked out the front door and I caught a glimpse of us in the hallway mirror. Edward and I looked like a couple, even though I didn't think he was necessarily trying to give that impression. Or if he was, he wasn't aware of it yet.

And as for me, I wouldn't mind if we did, but the truth was, I hadn't even begun to try to push us together in that way. Because I knew, despite all the ways that we'd grown together while in captivity, we were still very much two separate individuals. I wasn't sure what merging ourselves would look like—if it could even be successfully achieved—but I had realized something important.

First, Alice had been right; I wasn't going to be able to give up without an effort. If I'd been able to hold on during Jane's emotional carpet-bombing and through the possibility of being branded by Aro, I could risk the health of my heart.

Edward's hand rested on the small of my back, guiding me out the front door, his gaze solicitously reassuring me all while mischief glinted out of his green eyes, and I began to wonder if maybe this wouldn't be as impossible as I'd thought.

There was a limo in the front drive, and I hesitated for a second, my feet in their precarious heels slowing momentarily. It had all hit me. I was wearing a designer dress, high heels, taking a limo to a crowded, popular club, where we'd no doubt sit in the VIP section, sipping cocktails and looking down our noses at all the "normal" people assembled to bathe in the light of our too-bright splendor.

"Are you alright?" Edward asked, leaning in, the starched white collar of his shirt brushing against my cheek.

"I'm fine," I said. "It's just . . .I thought I'd left all this behind."

Edward opened the door to the limo. His words were so quiet I barely heard them. "You can't ever leave any of this behind."

I'd thought I had, but clearly that had only been my delusions working overtime. Now, I couldn't help but wonder if he was right; maybe this was just the price you paid to be born into a certain family. The privilege was something I'd have to come to terms with—using it without letting it use me in return.

The rest of the group slid into the limo, and as the doors were shutting, Alice spoke up. "So we're going to RoöBar again?"

Edward shook his head. "I've never liked it there. Too pretentious and too many photographers."

He didn't look at me, not a single glance in my direction, but I couldn't help but wonder if his dislike of photographers was somewhat magnified by the fact that he probably didn't want anyone taking pictures of us together. That would create all sorts of issues for him—and would raise questions that he didn't want to answer.

Of course, these were the same questions that I was dying for him to answer, but I'd figured out Edward Cullen enough to know he couldn't be rushed. If I ever wanted to hear what I wanted from him, it was going to have to be because he'd decided to tell me. Paparazzi pictures and a worldwide furor over who the new girl was by Edward's side was not going to improve an already complex situation.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, telling myself this over and over, until I was almost convinced that he couldn't possibly be ashamed of me. There was no room for shame in this persona that was Edward Cullen; he would never stand for it. He'd cut any and all embarrassing segments out of his life like they were a gangrenous leg.

"Good," Rose spoke up for the first time, and I didn't miss the way that her body was curled up next to Emmett's much larger one—the way they seemed to exist in one space, breathing the same air, needing the exact same things to survive. In comparison, Edward and I seemed like we were from two different planets. I scooted farther apart from him on the leather seat, and hoped he didn't notice. "I hate how I feel like I'm being watched constantly." Rosalie shivered a little, as if she could feel the eyes on her now.

"Where we are going then?" Emmett asked.

"Port o' Call," Edward said with a smirk and everyone looked at him blankly.

"Is this somewhere that I've been?" Rose asked, and I wondered if she always spoke in that almost-lofty tone—if it was ingrained in her from all the years of having to play the part of Rosalie Hale, Celebutante Princess.

"I'm fairly certain that you've never been there," Edward said, laughing a little, as if he was enjoying his own private joke. But don't worry, it's quiet, relaxed, the people that go there aren't hoping for celebrity sightings. We won't be bothered." Again I was reminded that though my mother was a semi-famous ex-model, and was used to dealing with that inconvenience, Rose and Edward were in a totally different realm of celebrity.

"Besides," Edward continued, "it's kind of fun to pretend that I'm not who I am." His words are ironic and lighthearted and produce a round of polite laughter—because Edward Cullen had always been ridiculously vocal about how much he loved being himself, or rather the way he _was_—but there was a dark shadow in his eyes and I wondered, not for the first time, how he was dealing with all of this.

I couldn't exactly ask right now, but I made a mental reminder to at least attempt a real conversation with him that didn't involve sex. While we were being held, it was easy to talk because there wasn't much else to do. He hadn't exactly put up walls back up yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

The limo stopped, and the door opened. Rosalie, the last in the limo, was the first out and I heard her low rumble of laughter. Except that it didn't sound like any laughter I'd ever heard. Instead, Rose seemed to be doing an excellent impression of what a mentally ill, unstable psycho sounded like as they went off the deep end.

"If I were smart," Edward said, cleaning close, the sound rumbling through my ear like a cat's purr, "I'd just drive away now. Leave her here, alone."

When we followed Emmett out of the limo, I discovered what it was that had unhinged Rosalie. She was standing by the front of the long black car, her arms folded across the gold sequined tunic she wore, her face frozen in an expression of disbelief and incredulity.

"You can't be serious," she announced to Edward. "I'm not going in there. We'll all need a round of shots afterwards—and not of tequila."

Edward merely shrugged, and I followed his gaze to the nondescript, low-slung, admittedly dingy looking building. I didn't think that was what had caused Rose's animosity, though I was pretty sure she wasn't a fan of the dive bar in general.

What had pissed her off was the two or three dozen motorcycles parked in front the bar. And these weren't hip, street-ready Ducatis, accompanied by hot young studs in leather jackets and designer jeans—these were mean, brawling, _I weigh 400 lbs and I'll kick your ass _Harleys.

"The Port O' Call?" Alice asked skeptically, distaste wrinkling her nose. "Does that mean it's nautically themed? Pirates, maybe?"

"Alice, I don't think this is a theme bar," I hissed, watching her face fall even farther. She self-consciously smoothed her gray silk Alice + Eve dress, and I almost felt sorry for her -really for all of us- though this was definitely more my kind of place than Rosalie Hale's.

"Unless the theme is _humiliation_," Rose announced dramatically.

"God, Rosie. Get off your fucking high horse," Edward snapped. "I know you royalty don't like mingling with commoners, but think about it. We go anywhere else, there'll be pictures. Is that really what you want?"

Rose hesitated, and I almost saw in that instant how Edward had ruled her for so long, how he had manipulated and controlled her until there wasn't much of the Rosalie Hale that everyone knew left.

Edward must have seen it too because he swooped in for the kill shot, his voice hard and fast and relentless. "There'll be pictures. Pictures on the blogs. Pop Sugar. Perez Hilton. TMZ. Not with me and you, though they'll definitely mention I was there. No. It'll be you and Emmett. _Emmett_. My bodyguard. Is that really what you want, Rosalie?"

Rosalie licked her lips and the insecurity radiated out from her in waves. Emmett's arm wrapped protectively around her, almost as if he was shielding her from Edward. Except he wasn't shooting bullets at her; only words. I'd never really understand why my mother had always laughed lightly, talking about the jerks she'd dated, the confident, self-assured, egotistical, powerful men her friends dated. _A man can't change his stripes. He won't._

_He simply isn't capable, darling._

Just like Rose, I felt shell-shocked by the sudden return of an Edward that everyone here recognized. He couldn't have been more different than the sweet, mischievously-smiling Edward who'd hovered above me the night before, stealing kiss after kiss until I was weak and limp with lust.

But it was the same man. If Alice hadn't been there, meeting my panicked look with one of her own steady, gray-eyed gazes, reassuring me, holding me here, I would have bolted. Screw not losing. Screw courage. I couldn't do this; nobody could.

How could I ever hope to win where Rosalie Hale had failed?

Alice, of course, saved the situation. "Pop Sugar?" she said, just as lightly as Renee had to those women who'd show up, devastated and ruined by the too-powerful men they'd loved, "Perez Hilton? Edward Cullen, I can't believe you read the gossip blogs."

Flashing him a dazzling Alice-smile, she teasingly smacked him on the arm, and Edward melted, almost instantaneously smiling back and transforming himself back into someone I recognized. I told myself I wasn't jealous that Alice could do what I couldn't even _begin _to do.

I was lying.

Edward's transformation released the chokehold that he'd had over Rosalie's tongue and she turned to face him, shrugging off Emmett's protective arm like it was useless, when only moments before she'd been clinging to him like a lifeline. "Fine," she said, her blue eyes glowing in her white face, and I could see how angry she was—but I wasn't sure if it was at Edward or maybe just at herself. "You win. No cameras is better."

"I've been here before," Edward continued, his relaxed attitude settling back over his shoulders. "It'll be fun, I promise. The best part about this place is that they don't give a shit who you are."

As someone who had been attempting to escape who I was for their whole life, suddenly Port O' Call looked a whole hell of a lot more attractive than an overpriced cocktail lounge filled with celebrity groupies in cellophane skirts. And I was almost never identified as Renee Swan's less-beautiful daughter. Edward was probably instantly recognizable in most of the bars in town, and never mind Rosalie Hale, who had one of the most famous faces on the planet.

Alice, who I was sure had probably been craving seeing the celebrities and their clothes, hid her disappointment so well that I was probably the only one who noticed, but then Edward leaned closer and I barely heard his words. "And, on top of that, I have a friend I want you to meet who never would have come to RoöBar. I think you'll like him."

And just like that, my jealousy just evaporated, and it was good thing too, because Edward turned to me, intertwining his fingers with mine. "Bella? You game?"

Hope blossomed inside of me. How had he hid this side of him for so long? It seemed so _obvious_. He must have had to work really hard at the asshat act, and I felt a pang of sympathy for the apathetic, empty, miserable shell of a man he must have been before.

We entered the bar, Emmett's arm wrapped around Rosalie again—I wasn't sure if this was an act of a protective boyfriend, or of the bodyguard that he'd been, but decided it must be a combination of both—and Edward between Alice and I.

Edward might be blasé outwardly, but I could tell from the way that his fingers tightened around mine that he was a bit tense as the crowd around the bar eyed us, dressed like we were out for a night of high-priced vodka cocktails and gossip. Then they turned away, as if they could care less about a group of obviously snotty, soft celebrities. I let out the breath that I hadn't known I was holding.

The bar looked even worse from the inside than it had from the outside, and I could see Rosalie's eyes growing wide as they took in the grimy concrete floor, the walls covered in 25 years of cigarette ash, the bar that looked as if it had been cleaned with the same brown dishrag for its entire existence.

The only man in the room not wearing black studded leather or a sweaty red bandana stepped away from the bar. He was tall, and built like a freight train, but his height gave the impression he was still slender. Jeans and a plain white t-shirt were accompanied by a battered blue Red Sox cap pulled low over his eyes, almost completely obscuring his face.

I leaned in closer to Edward. "It would have been nice to warn Alice, at least. She must be wearing a couple of thousand dollars in designer merchandise, and she hates dressing wrong. Especially if she's being set up."

Edward chuckled and stepped forward to clasp hands with the blond guy. "Jasper," he said, turning to Alice, and I caught a glimpse of weirdly familiar tawny eyes under the brim of the red hat, "this is Alice. Alice, Jasper Whitlock."

The name sounded familiar and I looked at Alice's face closely to see if she recognized it, but though she seemed edgy there wasn't any flash of recognition in her eyes, and if Alice didn't know the man, then he wasn't anyone famous. Maybe he just had one of those common faces. Except, I thought, getting a second glance as Alice took his outstretched hand, he was _gorgeous_. That face was the kind that Michelangelo would have wanted to sculpt, all angled curves and bedroom eyes.

Alice seemed suddenly unsure, which was unlike her, and she took his hand so hesitantly, I would have thought that she wanted nothing to do with him. Usually, if Alice was dressed to the nines—and she was tonight—she could approach any man and charm him into anything she wanted.

With this Jasper guy, she just briefly gripped his hand and let it go, as if she didn't even want to touch him. I leaned closer to Edward, feeling his arm slide around my waist, and I decided it didn't matter if we looked like a couple. None of these bikers would be caught dead stealing a photograph of us and selling it to TMZ. So I tangled my fingers in the hair on Edward's neck and pulled him down towards me, as if I was angling for a kiss. Instead I murmured into his ear, "Where'd you meet Jasper?"

"He's a big fan," Edward said, taking my cue and grazing his lips over mine. "And since the feeling's pretty mutual, we kind of became friends. Then he moved next door to Esme . . ."

"Wait," I said a little louder than I'd intended, his words cutting through the fog that Edward's lips seemed to generate inside my brain, "he lives _next _door to Esme? And what do you mean, the feeling's pretty mutual? Who is this guy?"

Edward laughed then, the sound rippling out in natural waves. "Only you, Bella," he said as Jasper took Alice over to the bar to get her a drink. The air was full of smoke and some rabble-rousing hair metal band, obscuring us enough that I pulled on his arm to stop him getting any closer.

"I'm serious. Tell me. And you should have told _her_," I said, gesturing to Alice. "She's going to humiliate herself."

"I doubt it," Edward said with a smirk. "And if she doesn't know who he is, that's actually better."

I gave him a level stare. "I very much doubt that she'd agree with you. I know I don't. Just tell me."

"Jasper Whitlock's a pretty famous baseball player. Excuse me, _ex-_baseball player. He retired this year when he permanently damaged his throwing shoulder."

"Let me guess. He played for the Red Sox," I deadpanned, "and now you're going to give me some lecture about not knowing baseball."

Edward shot me a cocky grin as the bikers in front of the section of the bar we were approaching miraculously melted away. Edward might be right that no one here would sell us out to the gossip blogs, but they still had a healthy respect for who he was. I decided that his reputation might have more to do with his penchant for brawling and boozing than for his music.

"Two beers," Edward ordered from the sullen, tattoo-covered bartender. "Sam Adams." He turned to me, a rather sheepish grin on his face, which was even more bizarre than the blush he'd worn this afternoon. "Shit, I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean to order for you."

"It's fine," I said hurriedly, giving him a bright smile. "I like Sam Adams."

Edward handed me the bottle, the condensation cold and slick on my skin. "I figured. You might not be from Boston, but you've adapted well."

I shrugged. He didn't need to know that most of my Boston mannerisms had been picked up from emulating him—including my fondness for Sam Adams.

"So, a matchmaking huh?" I asked as we decamped from our spot at the bar to a table in the far corner where Rose and Emmett had settled down. I didn't know what to say to him anymore; while we'd been captives, we'd both made an alarmingly regular habit of confessing the kind of secrets that you wanted someone to know if you weren't going to see the next day. And here we were, the next day, and neither of us knew how to talk normally.

Well, _I _didn't. I didn't think Edward had ever really known.

"I went to see Jasper yesterday, and he said something that made me think of Alice. Besides, he likes 'normal' girls," Edward said, as if I would know what he meant.

"Oh, so not groupies. Like you," I said, wishing the second I'd said it that I'd just kept my stupid mouth shut. He was making an effort, which was far more than I could have expected out of him, and here I was, baiting him with his past.

"Yes," Edward said slowly, drawing the word out as he picked at the wet label on his beer bottle.

Silence fell between us. I started to wonder why I'd ever been so egotistical to think that me and Edward Cullen could have any kind of relationship. We didn't have anything in common, and out of that prison cell, without our collective guilty consciences choking us, we didn't have anything to talk about.

The only good news, I decided as I glanced around the bar, noting Alice and Jasper, who were deep in conversation, was that there were almost no women here. The atmosphere between Edward and I might be stifled and tense, but at least he couldn't abandon me for some blonde slut.

"You heard what Carlisle said about the new album," Edward said, and I looked up in surprise to see him looking at me with amusement in his eyes-as if he knew exactly what I'd been thinking and found it particularly funny.

In all my stupid teenage girl-like angst about whether I should go or not, I'd completely forgotten that Carlisle had announced something about Edward's new album. I'd long since stopped expecting anything concrete to use for the blog out of my association with him that the subject change caught me by surprise.

"Are you sure you want to talk about this with me?" I asked.

Edward looked down, the shreds of his beer label drifting to the table. I noticed then that he'd only sipped at it, and it was still mostly full. He was silent for a long time, and I wondered briefly if he'd even heard me with the raucous music pouring out of the jukebox in the corner.

"Here's thing, Bella," he finally said, "I'm honestly not sure there's anyone else I can really talk to about it. You're kind of it."

I barely stopped my jaw from dropping. "But that means . . ." I started then hesitated. "That means that you didn't talk to anyone? Before?"

He shook his head.

To hell with it, I thought. "That must have been pretty lonely."

"And not very successful," he added ruefully. "Look at the result. But then, you already have. That's why you wanted to talk to me in the first place. At the concert."

"Everyone has a bad album," I said reasonably. "Look at Mariah Carey. She had a bad album _and _a bad movie."

The corner of Edward's lips turned up into a smile. "Are you comparing me to Mariah Carey?"

"Absolutely not," I said seriously, "you're much prettier."

"He really is," Rose spoke up, a glimmer of a smile on her face for the first time since we'd entered the bar. Emmett returned to our table with a beer for him and a squat glass filled with looked like a vodka and cranberry juice. She scooted closer, so we could talk, and I was surprised to see her such a friendly, open expression. Apparently she didn't begrudge me Edward at all, and who could really blame her? Edward didn't have the greatest track record, and regardless of how he was acting now, it was doubtful that it would be a permanent condition.

"So you're going back to the studio," Emmett said, taking a long swig of his beer. I couldn't help but notice that Edward's was still mostly full-I wasn't _trying _to monitor his alcohol consumption, but his behavior was so un-Edward like that I couldn't really help myself.

Edward nodded. "We were planning on it anyway, after the tour, and now . . .well. . it doesn't make sense not to."

I wondered if anyone besides me noticed how lost he looked; almost as if he didn't know what else to do with his time. But Rose was smiling affectionately, Emmett nodding encouragingly, and I realized that while they might have known him longer, they didn't know him better. Apparently, I was the only one who could really see beneath that thick skin of his.

"Are you sure you're ready?" I decided that since I was the only one who knew how upset, how lost he'd been, it was up to me to make sure he was making the right choice.

"Of course I am," he said like I was crazy to even question him, which while not surprising, still annoyed me.

"Just making sure," I snapped, drinking the rest of my beer. I hadn't eaten much dinner because I'd been trying to avoid Renee, and I could already feel the alcohol absorbing into my bloodstream.

I stood up to get another beer, and for the first time since we'd entered, felt the weight of all the male gazes on my body. It didn't matter, I told myself, I'd dressed this way to get attention -specifically Edward's- but I couldn't exactly be choosy about whose I attracted. I walked to the bar, and set the bottle on the grimy wood. "Another Sam Adams," I told the bartender.

When I returned to the table, Alice and Jasper had joined us. Alice was laughing, but I knew her so well I could tell there was a hint of something beneath the amusement-was it confusion?

I didn't get a chance to dig into what might be bothering her, because something much more familiar than the hardcore hair metal began to play over the sound system.

Our entire table froze, and I glanced down at Edward, who was lifting his still mostly-undrunk beer to his lips. I could see his hand clench white around bottle, and I swallowed hard.

It was a deliberate choice, there was no question of that, and seeing Edward try to bury his emotions under a layer of studious calm, I began to realize what he was struggling with. I couldn't do much to help him, but I could do this.

"Edward," I cried out, my voice excited and hopefully authentic, "I can't believe when we talked about my favorite Athair songs, I didn't mention this one. _Flannigan's Ball _has always been one of my favorites. Let's dance." I stuck out my hand toward him, setting my beer down on the table with a methodical click of glass on wood, the sound the opposite of everything I was saying.

_Take my hand,_ I chanted, _don't let them get the better of you._

_You're better than this._

_Better than the sum of your history and your anger and your reputation._

He gripped my hand like a lifeline, like I was pulling him from water that threatened to drown him. I led him to the dance floor, my heels clicking confidently on the concrete floor, my hips swaying in the skintight Hervé Leger dress. Every man wished he was Edward at that moment, being led to the dance floor by the expensive looking brunette. I tossed my hair, hoping that it looked just-fucked enough, and pulled Edward closer to me by the loops of his jeans. "Dance," I commanded in a low voice that only he could hear.

It took him a moment, and I knew from the mechanical, almost jerky movements that he began with that he was about fifteen seconds away from destroying whoever it was that had played this song. In another place, at another bar, it would have been different, someone picking an Athair song, but here, it was a deliberate slap in the face.

I gave Edward the brightest, most-Renee smile I could manage, and pulled him in even closer, encouraging him to do the same, and when his hands drifted low on my back, then to the top of my ass, I told myself that I didn't care if every biker in Hyannis Port knew I was sleeping with Edward Cullen.

Rosalie and Emmett were only moments behind us, and as Rose spun around, blond hair and diamonds flying, I felt Edward's muscles begin to relax a little more each moment that we turned the insult into a celebration.

It helped that at least whoever had picked the song had at least chosen one of Edward's best, and not one from the disastrous album we'd just been discussing. I didn't think anyone could have held his temper at bay if they'd done that.

By the end of the song, nearly the whole bar was singing the chorus, but when I looked up at Edward, his lips were clamped together, and the fear that he wasn't ready to make music again returned. _Flannigan's Ball _was the best of Athair's aesthetic—the drunken party song with the unmistakably Irish Boston edge. If he couldn't sing this relatively lighthearted piece of fluff, I didn't want to know how he'd possibly tackle one of the darker songs in his repertoire. Never mind how he could create something new that fit with the musician that he'd developed into.

The song ended, and another came on, and this time, my smile was genuine. Someone was amusing themselves, and it wasn't necessarily at Edward's expense anymore. They were poking fun _with _him, instead of at him.

From the first note, Edward knew which they'd picked, and I thought I saw him grimace, but the expression was gone before I could recognize it. He pulled me in close, until my head rested on his shoulder, and from the way we clung to each other, that we were involved was obvious.

Jasper was singing recklessly as he spun Alice around, Emmett eventually joined him, and the entire bar shouted the chorus.

When we reached the chorus breakdown, I tensed and so did Edward.

_Oh fuck it. Who am I shitting?_

_I'm a pitiful sight_

_And I ain't all that bright_

_I'm definitely not chiseled from stone_

_I'm a cheat and a liar—no woman's desire_

_I'll probably die cold and alone__._

I gripped Edward's shoulders, _really _hearing the words for the first time—though I had listened to this song hundreds of times over the years. It was a desperate man's plea for redemption, all cleverly designed as a passive aggressive ribald song. My heart ached for the man that he'd used to be, and I wished, not just for my sake, that this whole experience had helped him find something else. Something better.

At the end of the song, as Edward swore he would do better, that he would try to be the man the woman wanted him to be, the real Edward leaned in and brushed a kiss over my cheek.

As soon as he did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. As the cheers and the song faded from the room, I decided that this was the moment that Alice had been coaching me for. The moment I found my balls and went for broke.

I gathered up what resolve I had, and kissed Edward back, but it wasn't anything like the chaste peck from when I'd given in. Instead, I cradled his face in my hands, looked directly into those ridiculously green eyes, and kissed him hard. My lips crashed into his, and for a second, I knew I'd thrown him off balance, because I was kissing him and he was simply letting me, but then he regained his footing and the kiss he returned was just as passionate as mine had been.

The chords faded around us, and finally Edward released me as the next song started.

"Someone's recognized Jasper," he murmured and I tried not to be disappointed. We'd only kissed—something we'd done dozens of times now—but we'd done it in public, even if it was in the middle of a public that didn't care. I'd put myself out there, willing him to follow me, and while he had physically, I realized that perhaps my tactics hadn't been all that brilliant. Edward had spent years kissing girls in bars. In retrospect, while I'd been making a statement, he'd been doing something he did all the time.

I swallowed disappointment as Jasper led the crowd in a rousing rendition of _Tessie_. Alice appeared to still not understand who he was, and I decided that it wasn't my place to tell her. After all, what did it matter if he'd been a baseball player in another life? He wasn't one now.

Edward had said while we were held captive that this was his favorite song of his, but there was an utterly neutral, mask-like expression on his face the entire song, as if it had been written and sung by a different man completely.

We danced for a few more of Athair's songs, the crowd around us joining in even, and by the end of the third song my hair was plastered to my damp neck and I could feel the sweat under the skintight fabric of my dress.

"I need some air," I announced to Edward, having to nearly shout in his ear as he led a group of terrifying-looking bruisers in a complicated sort of jig. But I'd kept a close eye on him, and though he seemed involved, there was something distant in his eyes and he still hadn't sung a single note of _his _songs.

He nodded absently and I escaped out a greasy looking door onto the back porch, which was thankfully empty. I breathed in deeply, feeling the cool salty air fill my lungs, and I glanced down at the old wooden decking, wondering if it would be too Britney Spears of me to take the ridiculously uncomfortable high heels off and be barefoot for just a moment.

"I won't tell anyone." I looked up to see Rosalie, her hair bright in the moonlight, walking towards me, her own pair of gladiator booties dangling from the tips of her fingers. "If you won't tell on me, either."

"Thank god," I said, slipping my own shoes off. I set them on the railing and turned towards her. "You needed air too?"

She just nodded, and I knew from the almost grim expression that she had come to tell me something that she didn't want to have to say.

"I know this is weird," I began, figuring that I should make some sort of attempt. The two beers I'd drunk had imbued the entire atmosphere with a hazy unreality, as if I couldn't possibly be standing here, talking to Rosalie Hale about the man that we'd both fallen for.

"It's not weird," she interrupted. "I don't think there's a word for it."

"You're probably right," I admitted wryly.

"I know I am. I've been debating if I should even say this to you, but I decided that I like you, and so I'm kind of obligated to say it."

"Say what?"

Rose leaned on the wooden railing, her eyes on something far in the distance—maybe on the red and white striped buoy in the bay. "I know why you fell for him. He's so easy to fall for. All that wounded angst. The charm. The emptiness that you're so sure you can fill."

"He's not empty," I snapped, kind of offended that she could even believe that. She'd been with him for _months_, and she thought he was empty? Edward's problem was the opposite; he was too full.

Rosalie laughed, but it was bitter and sad, as if she couldn't believe that I'd fallen for his line of crap. Except that I was one hundred percent certain that what I'd felt and what he'd told me while we were kidnapped was nothing like what he'd told her.

"I know you think that he's different with you, that what you felt with him was completely the opposite, but it's not. That's how he does it. He convinces every woman that they're _different_. That he can change with him. And guess what? He isn't. He can't ever be."

"I don't want to believe that anyone is too far gone to change," I insisted. "Edward least of all."

"Listen," Rose said, turning towards me, her eyes glowing like two blue flames, "you saw him with me earlier. You're a strong girl, you're brave, you've lived through a situation that almost nobody could. But don't let him defeat you. Not like he defeated me."

It was like hearing the worst voices in my head come to life; the secret, deepest fears that whispered as I lay awake next to him as he slept. I didn't want to hear her, but it was too late.

"You don't want to hate yourself. It's not worth it. _He's _not worth it."

I wanted to tell her that he could be different, and that an altered Edward Cullen would be worth every single bit of risk that I'd take to see it through to the end, but I already felt my resolve dissolving a little. Rose's experience was living proof of what he did to women. I had no evidence whatsoever that it would be different with me. All I had was faith, and while it still stood strong and I knew I would try my very best to stay with him through his transformation, I knew that it had been rattled by Rosalie.

"I hope you and I can be friends," Rose continued. "I've let Edward ruin a lot things for me; I won't let him ruin a potential friendship."

Even as I tried to shore up my defenses, I couldn't help but smile at her. She'd meant well, and it had taken a lot of guts and personal strength to warn me. For a girl that I'd only known through her pictures in _US Weekly _and _OK!, _it was becoming pretty clear that I'd misjudged her.

"I'd like us to be friends too," I reassured her. "Alice likes you, and not just because you're Rosalie Hale. She respects celebrities—likes looking at their clothes. But she wouldn't make a friend unless she genuinely liked you. That's enough for me. You disliking Renee is just icing on the cake."

Rosalie laughed again, but this time it was freer, as if a load had been lifted from her slim shoulders. "Renee's a piece of work, but Esme told me that she cried over you, when they raided the house and you and Edward were gone. She actually _cried_."

That was the kind of thing I didn't need to hear if I was going to stay strong against the onslaught of Renee's need for forgiveness and absolution for a lifetime of shitty parenting.

"She was probably upset that she'd have to plan a funeral and a wake," I said, this time the bitterness in my own voice. "She hates wearing black; she looks like living death in it."

Rosalie's face wiped clean, as if she didn't want me to see what she thought, but I wondered if she disagreed. "Once a model, always a model," she said lightly. "You ready to go back inside?"

I wasn't sure I was ready to face Edward again, with all the doubts newly-swirling in my mind, but I felt vulnerable telling Rose so I just nodded and slipped my shoes back on. I wished that I could slip the armor back on over my heart as easily as I had the shoes, but it was missing in action and I wasn't sure when I'd be able to find it again.

* * *

**AN: Uh oh. Is trouble on the horizon? I think Rose did what she did here because she genuinely believes that Edward hasn't changed. She's just looking out for Bella. Sometimes someone can do the wrong thing when, from their perspective, it's the completely right thing.**

**Next chapter's title? Honestly, it isn't written, so I can't tell you, but it IS very Alice/Jasper oriented, so thats something right? Remember, darlings, review = a teaser!**


	28. Jasper's Confession

**AN: Another chapter! Sorry about the delay on the review replies + teasers, some of you noted that it would be tough to tease on a chapter that wasn't yet written. It was-I had to write it first, and it took longer than I thought. So here we are, the much anticipated Jasper/Alice reunion :)**

**Thank you to my awesome beta JosieSwan, and to Dixie, who I adore.**

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**Chapter 27: Jasper's Confession**

**Alice**

I had been thinking it all night...through the eye-widening, stomach-dropping introduction to this man that I'd already met once, to the way Bella had grasped Edward's hand and literally pulled him to the dance floor to face down the men in the bar that tried to humiliate him, to Jasper pulling me close on the dance floor, my cheek barely reaching his shoulder. It had been impossible _not _to think it, and as we sat in his car, the silence growing between us, it finally erupted out of me like the very worst kind of word vomit.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Jasper didn't say anything at first; he merely turned the corner onto the long drive that led both to Esme's palatial home and the Mediterranean monstrosity next door—his employer's house. He was so hard to read (more like impossible to read) -if I hadn't _known _that we'd met before, it had been both jarring and intriguing, and then ultimately humiliating as he'd dismissed me- I'd never have known by the way he'd merely extended his hand with a friendly, polite, _distant _smile.

I wanted to wipe that smile off his face with my fist, but I gritted my teeth together and attempted polite conversation again, wondering if he a misogynist or if it was just me he didn't like.

"You don't like me," I said, "and—"

My bluntness got his attention fast enough. "Now, that's not true," he interrupted, his trademark Georgia drawl becoming more evident with the underlying heat in his words. "I like you plenty fine."

I looked up and to my surprise he had pulled into the driveway of the Mediterranean house. I'd been genuinely shocked when he'd offered to drive me home, though I'd assumed it was merely a Southern gentleman thing—what a boy born and bred in Georgia did, even though he might be completely immune to the girl he'd been set up with.

"I hate to break it to you," I said in a cool, measured voice, "but this isn't Esme's house." I was sick of his cold and colder reactions, and I wanted to know what the hell he thought he was doing. He might not come out and tell me directly, because that clearly wasn't his way, but I was going to be as up front and honest as I could manage.

"It isn't," Jasper confirmed, turning off the engine of the Grand Jeep Cherokee and extracting the keys, "it's where I'm staying. Would you like to come in for a drink?"

So he wasn't a gardener after all—he was a housesitter of sorts. I'd thought the fully-loaded SUV with the leather seats and the expensive looking stereo might be a reach for a gardener, and his words confirmed it. Not that I really _cared _anymore; I liked him. I liked him a lot more than I felt comfortable admitting to, and as such, I didn't want to do this if he was going to keep toying with me.

"Why?"

He sighed. "Because I want you to. Because you want to. Because despite the fact that we didn't meet under the most auspicious of circumstances and I probably shouldn't, I like you."

I forced down the grimace and offered him as carefree of a smile as I could manage. No man had _ever _told me that they liked me despite their better judgment before—I was the kind of girl that mothers were dying to have their sons bring home for Sunday brunch—but I was afraid to ask what it was that made him so unsure because I knew I wouldn't like the answer.

Jasper opened the car door for me, and as we walked to the imposing front door, he slowed the stride of his long legs to match my much shorter ones. He was definitely a gentleman, so his attitude regarding his potential feelings confused the hell out of me.

"The first time I saw this house, I thought it was ridiculous," I confided in him as he unlocked the front door, secure in the knowledge that he could probably care less what I thought of his employer's house.

Confusion knitted his brows together. "Ridiculous?" he asked, as I followed him into the gourmet kitchen.

"It doesn't _fit_," I explained, gesturing around me. "This is Massachusetts, not the coast of Greece or one of those Mediterranean islands."

"Oh." He switched on a few low lights in the kitchen, reaching into the fridge, pulling out a pair of beers. He opened both of them, and I clutched it in my fist as he leaned back against the counter, an assessing sort of look in his eyes.

The dim lighting made the cavernous kitchen seem way too intimate, and my sudden fear that he would kiss me—or that he wouldn't—made me chattier than normal. "He's probably one of those very rich people who just buys the showiest house they can find, no matter what looks good."

I wasn't sure, but there was an odd look in his eyes at that, and I wondered, almost belatedly, if the owner was a friend, and I'd crossed a line. "Do you know him?" I asked.

"The owner?" Jasper stripped off a piece of his beer label and wove it through his fingers. They were calloused and hard looking, as though he worked with them for his living. Maybe he _was _the gardener, after all. "I thought I knew him pretty well, but I'm beginning to think I didn't know him as well as I thought I did."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead I let the beer tip down my throat and considered throwing myself out of a convenient window. Clearly I'd overstepped my bounds, and he was regretting asking me in. It figured that with men I didn't like at all, I could say exactly the right, absolutely charming thing, but with Jasper—who made my skin itch and my head go fuzzy—I could apparently only insult his employer's taste in real estate.

"So tell me more about you," he said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You know Bella, then? And she's Renee Swan's daughter."

If Edward hadn't vouched for him personally, I would have been suspicious at the question. Even though I forgot that Bella was technically a quasi-celebrity, other people might not have. "Yeah, she is, though she's not like her mom at all. Not usually, anyway," I added, remembering my jolt of surprise when Bella had come down the steps earlier tonight, looking the most like Renee that I'd ever seen her. "I don't know what was up with her tonight."

Jasper grinned at that. "Yes, you do. You know exactly what she was thinking."

"I suppose that's true," I admitted wryly. "Though, I'm not exactly sure that's a sane train of thought."

I fully expected that Jasper, being Edward's friend, would rush to his defense the same way that I'd rush to Bella's or even Rosalie's if they'd been quasi-insulted, but Jasper just looked at me with his steady golden eyes, and I realized that he was one of those rare friends that was actually _honest_.

"Edward," he finally said, "is an interesting conundrum. He's a good guy, but it's buried so far down that I'm not sure he'll ever be able to find it."

"She knows. And she's watching," I said, deciding it was only fair that such a straightforward admission be met with equal honesty.

"Good. Now, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a fashion designer," I said, feeling for the first time that 1) it was actually true now and 2) that it had never sounded quite so frivolous when faced with those hard, aged calluses on Jasper's hands.

Clearly he seemed to agree with me, because he just resumed his semi-bored, lounging pose and murmured, "Interesting."

"And what about you? You're a housesitter?" I decided that I'd been on the hot seat long enough; my career choice might be frivolous to him, but at least I _had _one.

"Actually, this is more of a temporary . . . job," Jasper said, with what I thought might be a trace of embarrassment in his voice. "What I was doing before didn't really work out long-term."

"What were you before?" I asked, wondering if he was one of those stockbrokers or financial analysts who'd started in the business hungry and ambitious, but had burnt out before thirty. I'd dated a few of them before, and wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

He looked at his beer steadily, before raising his gaze up to me. "I was a baseball player."

"A baseball player?" I asked. Of all the things I'd expected him to say, that hadn't even been close. "So you didn't make the major leagues?"

"Actually, no. That wasn't it." He seemed embarrassed, as if he didn't want to tell me the whole truth, so I pushed.

"You did make the majors?" That explained the rather nice SUV he'd driven, but not the current job he was holding.

He nodded. "Actually, I haven't been totally honest with you," Jasper said, and I caught a trace of guilty embarrassment in his voice. "I was a rather. . . famous baseball player. I'm honestly a little shocked you didn't recognize me or my name. I thought you had—that's why I acted like I did when we met."

A feeling of unease was increasingly exponentially in my stomach like acid. "Famous? What team did you play for?"

"The Boston Red Sox."

As soon as he said it, I saw him as he'd been. In a pristine white uniform bordered in red, his hair short and business-like, his laidback amber eyes sharp and deadly, standing on the pitcher's mound as if it was his throne and Fenway Park was his kingdom.

Jasper Whitlock—the all-star closer for the Boston Red Sox. I'd seen him on billboards and in commercials on TV for years. Why hadn't I recognized him? Because I'd seen him mowing a lawn and had just automatically assumed he was the fucking gardener.

My face flamed red and I felt vaguely like vomiting all over the cherry wood floor of the kitchen. The floor—this house. Oh god, what I'd said about the house! About him! I'd basically implied—or maybe it hadn't even been an implication—that he didn't have any taste.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "God, I should just go." I set the beer on the counter, but my hand hesitated indecisively and I made the mistake of looking up at him. He was smiling, practically _glowing_, and I could only imagine what he thought of me.

I'd fought most for years against my detractors who said that fashion was for morons not equipped to deal with anything more mentally taxing than which shoes to pair with which dress. But today I hadn't done much to disprove their theories. I'd behaved moronically, and deserved every bit of his derision, but that didn't mean that I could face it.

"I'm sorry," I said again, this time in a rush, my hand completely abandoning the bottle on the counter. "I'm just going to go. . .it really _is _a beautiful house." And, like a coward, I fled. I was out the back door, off the deck, racing for the trees that marked the edge of Esme's property. I didn't really expect him to follow or to try to stop me and so I wasn't surprised when he didn't.

That didn't mean that my pride wasn't seriously wounded or that I wasn't trembling with outraged indignity by the time I climbed up the stairs to my bedroom. Had it just been a joke to him? Trick the star-struck girl who'd spent so much of her life gawking at celebrities from a distance? I stalked in the room and paced up and down the length, feeling more agitated by the second.

All I could see was Jasper's amusement, his glee that he'd managed to fool pathetic little me. Finally, knowing I wouldn't get a second of sleep until I calmed down, I opened the door and walked down the dark hallway to Bella's bedroom. I hesitated for a second, hoping I wasn't interrupting anything, but Bella had said she was tired as they'd left the bar, and if I wasn't mistaken, she'd subtly been indicating to Edward that a visit to her room tonight wouldn't be welcome. Whether he'd picked up on that or even cared if she didn't want him remained to be seen. Since it was Edward, I wasn't all that confident. Still, I listened at the door for a moment, and when I didn't hear any suspicious noises, I knocked.

Bella opened the door so quickly that I knew she hadn't been sleeping, despite her claim to Edward that she was exhausted. Silently, she held the door opened and closed it behind me.

"Jasper is Jasper Whitlock," I announced, plopping down on Bella's bed, not even caring if my dress wrinkled. "I'm such a fucking idiot that I didn't figure it out until he practically handed it to me on a silver platter."

Bella raised an eyebrow, and I continued. "I even insulted his house. And said he had no taste."

She settled down at the end of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her short cotton night shift. "That's pretty serious, even for you," she said softly.

"God, I know. I don't know what I was thinking . . .I said his house was ridiculous. _Ridiculous_." I buried my face in my hands, feeling it flush bright red again, just remembering how stupid I had sounded. Stupid and insulting. It would be a sign of the apocalypse if he ever wanted to even _speak _to me again after my behavior—nevermind that no man wanted to date the village idiot.

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Bella said reassuringly, but even she didn't sound convinced.

"It was exactly that bad," I groaned. "And I don't even get _why_ he would let me babble on like that."

"Maybe he thought you knew? I mean, if you follow baseball, he's apparently pretty famous."

"He's grown his hair out though," I defended. "It looks different on all those posters."

"Sweetie, it's alright. I didn't recognize him either, at least not until Edward said that he was a big fan and I had no idea what he was talking about until he confessed that Jasper was some famous baseball star."

"You knew?" I asked in outrage. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd go around insulting his house or his taste," Bella shrugged. "I figured he'd tell you eventually."

"He didn't even want to tell me when he did," I said bitterly. "I had to practically drag it out of him, which makes no sense whatsoever. If you're rich and famous, wouldn't you at least use that to pick up stupid clueless women?"

"If you're Edward, you do," Bella said, her voice curdling in the quiet room.

"Ouch. That doesn't sound very promising for Edward's chances."

Bella sighed. "It's not that I don't like him; I do. I like him a lot more than I should. But how long is he going to keep this up? I don't think anyone honestly believes he's really changed for good."

"He could have," I said, but Bella gave me her 'cut the bullshit' glare, and I knew she'd heard the hesitation and doubt in my voice.

"Did he figure out that you weren't really tired?" I asked gently.

Bella shook her head. "I'm not giving up. I just. . .I needed some time. Away. It's exhausting turning off my brain all the time."

"Turning your brain off?"

"I'm giving this a try, remember?" Bella said with exasperation. "But I _know _it's a bad idea, so while we're together, all I can hear is this constant litany of how I'm going to end up heartbroken and alone. Like Rosalie."

"Rosalie's hardly heartbroken and alone," I said wryly.

"You know what I mean. That Emmett was there to pick up the pieces was lucky for her. But I'm not Rose, who's gorgeous and sweet and who men fall in love with without her even trying. I'm not going to have some hunky bodyguard lusting after me while my life falls apart if I throw it at the wrong man."

"No, you won't. But you have me, and even better, you have you. You're smart and talented and levelheaded. Which is nearly a miracle considering who your mother is. You'll survive because that's who you are—survivor."

Bella sighed, but I could tell that a little of what I'd said had made it through that thick skull of hers. She might have been convinced that this would ultimately end in disaster, but I liked what I saw from Edward lately. He clearly cared about Bella a lot, even if he couldn't admit it to her—or to himself. I just hoped that he wouldn't do anything stupid because one mistake, and she'd be gone.

"And what are we going to do about you?" Bella asked.

"Nothing," I said in a hard voice. "We're going to forget that I ever had an ill-advised blind date with Jasper Whitlock. If you ever bring it up again, I'll never forgive you."

"You could maybe ask him. . ." Bella began, but I cut her off.

"Ask him what? Why he thought it would be funny to pretend to be someone he wasn't? Why he thought it would be funny to lie?"

"Did he lie, though?" Bella asked, and I'd have to be stupid to miss the hopeful note in her voice. She and Edward were in on this—there was no other explanation for how she kept defending the lying bastard.

"Yes," I insisted before I could really think through what he _had _said.

"Okay," Bella said with a shrug. "If you're certain he lied, then, yes, he's a douchebag, and you're right to move on."

"Yes," I said, but uncertainty had begun to creep in. "You're tired, I should let you get some sleep." What I didn't mention was that it was extremely unlikely that I'd be sleeping any time soon. I already knew that I'd be spending hours going through every single thing Jasper had said all evening, searching for proof that he'd lied.

Bella gave me a quick hug, and I felt a renewed sense of relief that my best friend had been returned to me, safe and sound. I didn't want to know what I would have done without her.

"I'll see you in the morning," I said as I exited the room.

I got ready for bed, hoping the routine of washing my face, and brushing my teeth and slipping into a pair of airy cotton shorts and a t-shirt would relax me enough that I'd be able to fall asleep. It didn't. Even an hour after crawling into bed, as the clock creeped to 2 in the morning, I was still wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, Bella's words running through my mind in an endlessly annoying loop.

_If you're sure that he lied . . ._

The problem was that I wasn't sure at all that he _had_ lied. I'd searched through everything he'd said throughout the evening, and the only conclusion that I'd been able to come to was that he'd specifically done everything he could _not _to lie. Instead, he'd done the exact opposite, and when I'd pushed him, leaving him no choice but to come clean or to lie, he'd chosen the former instead of the latter.

* * *

Morning dawned with a warm blue sky, and I dragged myself out of bed reluctantly. I'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, and I felt more conflicted than I had the night before, though I wasn't sure what the purpose was of continually re-examining Jasper's motives.

Whatever they'd been, I'd ruined whatever chance I'd had with him. Our initial meeting coupled with possibly the worst first date in history wasn't the most auspicious beginning to a relationship. I dragged a hand through my hair, and refused to even look in the mirror. If I felt crappy, then it made sense that I should look crappy too. Besides, who was I even dressing up for? Carlisle? Esme? Bella, who liked to sleep in oversized t-shirts and sweatpants?

I got an answer to my theoretical question when I walked into the breakfast room and not at all what I'd been expecting.

Edward and Jasper were sitting around Esme's round table, eating pancakes. I froze in the doorway, wondering if I could escape before they noticed I was even here. How stupid had I been to think that I'd never have to see him again? He and Edward were friends and he lived _next door_. The only way I'd probably be able to avoid him would be to go back to Boston, and Rose and I were too deep in the planning stages for the business for me to run away.

Of course, he looked up first. "Good morning," he said, smiling so wide—no pretension or secret amusement at my idiocy—that my confusion only grew. What the _hell _was he playing at?

"Good morning," I said cautiously, as I walked into the room, only remembering when I was halfway to the table that I hadn't even glanced in a mirror this morning to make sure that my hair wasn't sticking straight up. Because this whole scenario hadn't really been bad enough before.

Edward briefly glanced up and choked on a mouthful of pancake. "Your hair," he laughed, "is really priceless."

I mustered up the most freezing glare I could manage—it was practically Esme-like in its ferocity—and self-consciously patted my hair down as best as I could manage while taking a seat as far away from Jasper as I could manage.

I'd behaved like a silly schoolgirl last night, bolting at Jasper's humiliating admission, but this time, I would be dignified, and pretend like he didn't bother me at all.

"Did you see Bella?" Edward asked as I spooned fruit onto my plate and added a piece of toast that I knew I'd only pick at. My stomach churned with embarrassment and I didn't think I'd even be able to meet Jasper's eyes, even though I could feel his gaze on me.

It was too bad Bella was still in bed because the concerned and interested expression on Edward's face was nearly priceless. He'd probably never be the most typical or the most traditional of boyfriends, but she was insane if she honestly thought that he hadn't fallen for her.

I shook my head, and didn't mention that I'd even talked to her last night despite her "exhaustion," because that would mean 1) breaking girl code (and that was one of the few things I held truly sacred—like Manolo Blahniks or Versace) and 2) bringing up last night which I never wanted to speak of ever again. Especially with Jasper in the room.

"I'm going to the studio today," Edward said, "and I wanted to see her before I left. But I'll be back tonight. You'll tell her?"

"Sure," I said, briefly debating telling him that I was sure Bella wouldn't mind an early-morning wakeup if it was him doing the waking, but I decided that Edward was too new to all of this. It wouldn't be a good idea to push him. With my luck lately, he'd freak and bolt and then I'd have myself to blame not only for the debacle with Jasper, but for the demise of Bella and Edward's nascent relationship too.

"Thanks," he said, and got to his feet. "I'll see you later, Jaz. Xbox tonight?"

"You're not going out?" Jasper asked, sounding surprised.

"Eh," Edward shrugged. "It's the first day in the studio. I'll probably be tired when I'm done. Too tired to go out, anyway."

"Alright. And yeah, I'll be home."

I felt a surge of annoyance when Jasper mentioned his house and my fingers clenched the napkin I'd been folding and re-folding in my lap. I had to remind myself that it hadn't been directed at me, and the fact that he was here at all had nothing to do with me and when Edward left, he'd leave as well. He'd eaten his pancakes and was leaning back in his chair with the satisfied look of a man who'd just eaten a good meal.

Picking at a piece of pineapple, I smiled at Edward as he disappeared out of the room and mentally prepared for the awkward goodbye to come. _Don't look up, _I chanted at myself, _don't look up even though Jasper looks seriously gorgeous this morning. Don't do it—just. . .don't._

"Are you ever going to look at me?"

It was too hard to keep my eyes glued to my plate. I glanced up at him, in surprise, because last night he hadn't seemed to be a fan of either the difficult conversation or the blunt statement.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, trying way too hard to keep my voice steady, aware that I was losing and there was a very defensive edge to it. "I'm eating."

"You're not eating," he said, "you've been picking at the same piece of pineapple for the last five minutes."

I looked up then, and decided if he could play hardball, then so could I. "And you're awfully observant."

"I like watching you," he shrugged, not looking the least bit embarrassed by this admission. "You're so delicate but you've got this spine of steel that I find fascinating. And every so often, it flashes out of your eyes and I'm amazed you're not seven feet tall and built like a wrestler."

I gaped at him. "Nevermind, you're not observant. You're practically a stalker."

He just shrugged, as if I'd accused him of something far more pleasant. "I told you last night; I like you."

_You could maybe ask him . . ._

Bella's advice echoed in my head again, and I wanted to tell her to _shut up_, because she was making this a lot more difficult than it needed to be—but like all of advice of Bella's, it was sound and I couldn't ignore it anymore. Besides, he apparently wasn't going to go away quietly, and so I needed to know what the hell he'd been thinking. I'd speculated all through the night and I wasn't any closer to answers—only he could give me those.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were?" I'd envisioned the question in my head as an offensive chess-like move, full of annoyed outrage, but instead it came out soft and weak and vulnerable. As if it had really hurt my feelings because of what he'd done.

Of course, he had, but the very last thing I'd ever wanted him to know was that he had.

"And right there," Jasper said, his voice equally quiet, "is what I'm talking about. God, you just made me feel like the world's biggest ass."

"You _are _the world's biggest ass," I retorted. "It wasn't your secret to keep."

"I didn't mean to make it a secret," he admitted, and to my horror, he stood up and moved two chairs over, until he was right next to me. "You're not eating, and I don't think you will until we settle this, so let's take a walk and talk about it." He offered a hand to me, and I hesitated.

"I'm wearing pajamas," I blurted out. "And I haven't even brushed my hair."

"You look beautiful," he said, his eyes serious and honest, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair behind my ear.

It was hard to argue after he'd said that, so I gave up and slid my hand into his. The calluses didn't feel like I thought they would—instead they made his hand feel strong and reassuring, as if I could anchor myself to him and never worry about falling.

Except that was the whole problem. I was falling.

We walked out onto the veranda, and Jasper shaded his eyes with his free hand. "It's going to be a gorgeous day," he said. "This was always my favorite kind of day to play ball."

Jasper led us off the veranda and onto the wide expanse of grass, as if he had a definite destination in mind. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"The beach. I like going there in the mornings—when it's just me and the ocean."

We were silent for a few minutes as we walked across Esme's beautiful grass. Even her _lawn _was flawless, I thought with a pang of envy. "So you miss it then?" I ventured as we reached the edge of the beach.

Jasper helped me down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the beach and followed behind me. "Every day," he confirmed.

Like he'd said, the beach was astonishingly empty so early in the morning—it was just us and the crashing surf and a wide swath of golden sand.

"Couldn't you still play? Not in the majors, obviously. But recreationally?" I slipped my shoes off with my free hand and dug my toes into the warm sand.

"Do you really think that anyone would want to play against me?" He shook his head ruefully. "Actually, they probably would. Even if they had to face my curveball. But I couldn't, it's . . ." Jasper took a deep breath of the salty air, "it's hard to explain. Baseball is part of who I am, but it's not just playing the game, going through the motions. It's the way the crowd at Fenway roars my name when they hear Athair. It's the smell of the old stadium when you walk to the clubhouse. It's the guys in the bullpen and in the dugout. It's the night sky when I stand on the mound and look up." He shrugged. "It wouldn't be the same. Not playing for a major league team; not playing for the Red Sox."

If you'd told me last night that I'd be feeling sorry for Jasper Whitlock, I'd have said you were crazy, but he'd just poured out his heart to me, and I began to think that maybe I understood, and maybe I even sympathized a little bit.

"So," he continued, "you probably think I'm crazy. That I didn't tell you. But I don't know if I'm really Jasper Whitlock, All-Star Red Sox closer, anymore. He feels like a different man, from a different time. And, on top of that, I don't understand the fame and the money. I'd have paid them to play ball—to be paid so much for doing something I loved never made sense to me. For that reason, I don't really go for the whole 'rich guy' thing, and well . . ." he hesitated. "You're a fashion designer. You're friends with Rosalie Hale and Renee Swan. You vacation at Esme Platt's summer house in Hyannis Port."

All of what he'd said was true, and I couldn't deny it. I could explain however, but I wasn't sure where to begin. I'd have to leave out that Bella had been kidnapped with Edward, and I'd been forced into coming to Esme's house—that it hadn't been by choice and it certainly hadn't started out as a vacation. And that before the last week, I'd been a fashion counterfeiter—not a fashion _designer_.

It felt wrong to stay silent when he'd just been so honest with me, but I couldn't tell him the truth, even if I thought he might like me more if he knew I wasn't rich at all. And suddenly, I knew why he'd said the night before that he'd liked me despite his better judgment; he'd been worried that I was just another Rosalie Hale. While I loved Rose, and I was incredibly grateful to her for the opportunity to start my own line, I knew I'd never be her. I'd always be fighting to do what I wanted, even with money in the bank.

So I decided to tell him what I could and hope that when he inevitably discovered the truth later, that he wouldn't be angry. "That _is _true," I admitted, "but I don't want you to think I'm like all those aimless, daddy's little rich girls. I've always known I wanted to be designer. This isn't just a phase for me."

"I know," he said seriously. "I discovered that pretty quick. You're a different kind of girl, Alice Brandon." He stopped and took my other hand in his. "I'd like to take you out again tonight. Just us. No bikers, no potential roofies, no Edward and Bella and all their problems, and most importantly, no misunderstandings."

"Do you think we even deserve a third chance?" I asked skeptically.

"In my defense, the biker bar wasn't my idea," Jasper chuckled. "Say yes."

With him looking at me that way, the sun lighting up his blond hair and his smile crinkling the corners of those incredibly amber eyes, I couldn't say no. So I said yes. "Yes."

"Good. Because I've been wanting to do this, and I couldn't until you did." He leaned down and brushed his lips over mine softly, cautiously, as if he was afraid that I'd push him away. For a guy who was that observant, he'd clearly missed the most important thing of all: I really liked him too.

I reached up and grasped his head, pulling him down more insistently for a second, longer kiss. He tasted like fresh cut grass and sunshine and maple syrup. "I've been waiting for you to do that a long time," I told him, leaning into his chest as his arms wrapped around me.

"Sorry, ma'am," he teased softly, "I'll make sure not to wait so long next time."

* * *

**AN: I couldn't help myself, I wanted to see if I could still work the quote in :)**

**Next chapter is tentatively titled "Karma." Review = a reply + a teaser!**


	29. Karma

**AN: Thank you all for your patience. As some of you might have read on twitter or in your review replies, I am taking Sins of its regular schedule. No, this doesn't mean I'm not ever going to update, or that updating will happen much less frequently. I'm just struggling with churning out such long chapters, and the stress is making it even harder for me to write. I need to write at my pace-not such a regimented pace. I will still do teasers in review replies. Thank you all for your patience (again) and for sticking with me.**

**Opening lyrics are from "Tired of You" by the Foo Fighters and the jesus of rock music, Dave Grohl.**

**Much thanks go to JosieSwan and Dixie. You both know why :)**

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**Chapter 28: Karma**

**Edward**

_I can be your liar, I can be your bearer of bad news;_

_Sick and uninspired by the diamonds in your fire_

_Burning like a flame inside of you._

_Is this just desire or the truth?_

I'd decided that my family and friends must think I was the biggest fucking moron on the planet—and really, considering my past behavior, I supposed that this wouldn't be much of a stretch—but since Bella had walked back into the bar, something had changed. Everyone acted as if everything was exactly the same, but I wasn't stupid. It was tangible, nearly a living breathing entity that had sprouted between us.

And despite the pseudo-ignorant attitude of those around me, I knew this supposedly mysterious entity had a name—Rosalie fucking Hale.

"So you're sure you're ready to go to the studio?" Carlisle asked the next morning, as I paced back and forth in my room. Conventional wisdom said it was a bad idea to go to sleep mad, but I hadn't been mad, necessarily—at least not at first. My frustration and annoyance and fucking helplessness had grown exponentially throughout the mostly sleepless night until this morning, leaving me a fucking bundle of sunshine and joy. Carlisle had discovered this the hard way, when I'd opened the door and nearly bit his head off.

I couldn't tell him that I'd been sure for the briefest of seconds that it hadn't been him knocking on the door, but someone else entirely.

"I want to know what she fucking told her," I snarled, completely ignoring Carlisle's question.

He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand. "Do you even _want _to know what Rose told her? She could say all kinds of shit, and Edward—" Carlisle's voice demanded my attention and I sulkily glanced over at him, hating that he was forcing me to remember all the times he'd told me my treatment of Rose would end up biting me in the ass. "It would all be true."

"Karma sucks," I muttered. "And it's not even like I would _do _that shit to Bella."

"And there's your problem," Carlisle said, so calm, so rational, so faintly amused that I wanted to smash his fucking face in. Didn't he _get _it? If Bella left, then I'd be on my own, alone, adrift, with no idea who the fuck I was. Bella was the only thing keeping these shifting pieces of myself glued together. Without her, I'd be worse off than before the kidnapping.

She couldn't leave. I needed her; I _wanted _her. So much it scared the ever loving shit out of me, but the alternative was a much worse prospect.

"I don't understand," I said testily.

"You really don't get women at all," Carlisle said with an exasperated sigh. "Don't you think Rose can see that? We all see it—and for the record, it's about damn time that you discovered that women are more than just disposable objects—but she sees it most of all. Even if she has Emmett now, that shit hurts. She probably said what she did to Bella for a couple of reasons, but I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't a subconscious desire to scare her away."

"You're saying Rose is jealous of Bella?"

"Think about it, Edward. You treat Rosalie like shit for the entirety of your relationship with her. You meet Bella and admittedly go through a rough time with her, but all Rose sees is that you've changed and Bella's the girl that changed you."

"I haven't changed," I protested, but it was weak. I knew I'd changed... I just hated how Carlisle said it like I'd been whipped by a girl. Maybe part of it was Bella, but a lot of it had been my crazy fucker of an uncle. He'd undone years worth of knots that I'd been tangled up in, and then he'd proceeded to tie a whole new set.

I was still trying to figure out how the hell to explain this to Carlisle, when he said, "I get it. I really do. It wasn't just Bella. But that isn't what Rose sees."

"So Rose hates me now," I said with an annoyed voice. "Big deal."

"I don't think this is exactly a change of heart for her," Carlisle said, and I hated the glimmer of a smile I saw on his face. He thought this was fucking _funny_. I'd give him funny—when Bella left because she'd been scared off by Rose, he'd regret not doing more to stop me from going off the deep end.

"So what do I do?" I hated that I had to ask Carlisle for advice, but I had to admit that if he'd broken through the icy walls that surrounded Esme, he had to be a lot better at this than I'd thought. And god knew I was not only terrible, but I'd spent years _trying _to be terrible. I didn't even know where to begin.

"You go to her. You reassure her. You tell her how you feel." Carlisle shrugged. "Easy as that."

"You're serious, aren't you?" I asked in disbelief. "Tell her how I feel? I don't even know how the fuck I feel."

Carlisle smiled. "Well then you'd better figure it out. Now about the studio. I'm sending you some more backing musicians, you know, since Athair seems to be an excellent breeding ground for them."

"It's not my fault that nobody wants to stay," I said coldly. "They're just punks. Cheap, lazy punks who can't play their instruments."

"And I wonder why we can't get anyone to stay," Carlisle said with a sigh.

"I'll manage without them," I snapped, annoyed at how he could just assume that I could waltz up to Bella like my balls had shrunk a few sizes and confess my undying love. As if I even know what love felt like. As if I could actually _feel _love.

"No," Carlisle argued calmly. "You need musicians. The studio knows you're coming. Would you like me go with you?"

"I'm going alone," I snarled. "God knows I could stand to get away from you. Fucking sucking all the air out of the room."

Carlisle stood, understanding that was his cue to go. "You know where it is. Oh, and Jasper's downstairs. He's eating Esme out of the house, so maybe you should go down and find out what he wants besides pancakes."

I didn't even dignify that with an answer, because I didn't trust what would come out of my mouth next. Panic and terror had swelled at the thought of going to the studio, of having to make music again, and that situation hadn't been helped by Carlisle's advice regarding Bella. I wasn't going to be able to tell her how I felt. It was vaguely possible that I could reassure her, but even that seemed too much for me to be able to handle.

* * *

Jasper put away food like nobody I'd ever seen. I'd personally seen him demolish two plates of pancakes, and who knew how many he'd eaten while I was talking to Carlisle.

"You're in a bad mood," Jasper finally said, in between bites.

"Glad you noticed," I said sarcastically as I pushed my uneaten food around the plate. Even if I'd been hungry to begin with, Jasper's ridiculously healthy appetite would have ruined my own.

He sighed and pushed his plate away. "And here I thought we were free of surly Edward forever."

"Surly?" I glared at him.

"Or emo, angst-ridden, woe-is-me Edward. Whichever you'd prefer." Jasper grinned as if he'd just come up with the punchline of a joke.

"If I'm surly," I informed him, my voice patronizing and cutting, "it's because I'm a fucking wreck. Thank you for pointing that out, though. I appreciate it."

"Listen, I get it. You're dealing with a ton of crap," Jasper said calmly, as if I hadn't just shit all over him. "But whatever Rose said to Bella wasn't exactly . . .far from the mark, probably. You need to talk to her."

His advice eerily mirrored Carlisle's. "I can't," I said shortly. "Not the way guys normally talk to girls they . . ." To prove my point, I literally couldn't get my mouth to form the word, "like."

"Girls they like?" Jasper completed wryly. "It's not going to bite you."

"Don't be so certain," I told him with a fatalistic humor.

"For example, I'm here this morning—" Jasper began to say but I interrupted him before he could finish.

"To eat my pancakes."

"Yes," Jasper corrected with an eye roll, "I'm here this morning, _eating your pancakes_, to tell Alice that I'm sorry I lied, and that I like her. This is a mature, grownup way of handling it."

"You mean, snarling at everyone in sight and not being able to actually _say _the word, 'like' isn't a mature way of handling it?"

"Surprisingly no. Now what are you going to do?"

I hated the way that Jasper and Carlisle had seemingly merged brains and were uttering nearly the same things. It made it really hard to fight the inevitable.

"I have no fucking idea," I told him with false bravado, "but I'll come up with something."

"My suggestion is to stick with what you're good at," Jasper said seriously, as if this was really helpful advice.

What was I good at?

I couldn't impress Bella by chugging whiskey. I couldn't impress her with my mad threesome skills—because although I was pretty sure that she liked having sex with me, I thought it might be a bit soon to introduce a third party into the bedroom.

We lapsed into silence, and I actually managed to choke down a few mouthfuls of breakfast, suddenly more nervous about the prospect of seeking out Bella than going to the recording studio—which was really a feat because my stomach was in a million knots at the thought of trying to make music again. I'd had several moments during my long, sleepless night when I'd wondered if I could even do it anymore... if perhaps my time with the Red Hands had dried out my musical inspiration for good.

What was really inevitable wasn't that Bella was going to leave me, it was that I had suddenly become the musical equivalent of beef jerky.

After Alice arrived, I decided that if I was going to man up, then Jasper was going to have to do the same, so I left them alone and went in search of Bella.

I paced in front of her doorway for a good five minutes, hoping that nobody would see me and hoping that miraculous inspiration would strike.

It didn't.

I was in the middle of the thirty-seventh pass by her door when it suddenly opened, and there she was in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, a wry, amused smile on her face.

"Are you becoming a stalker, too?" she asked lightly, as if I wasn't exactly what she'd just accused me of. As if this was some sort of _joke_.

But then it hit me. This was Bella, and not just any Bella, but a Bella I knew. Not the Bella of last night. Whatever had happened between us—the blow-off she'd given me when I'd tried to sit next to her in the limo, the polite but distant way she'd told me she was too tired when I'd offered to walk her to her room, the brief kiss she'd merely brushed across my cheek—had passed. Maybe I was actually going to experience something that resembled luck, and I wouldn't have to have the fucking conversation after all.

"No. Not yet, anyway," I told her cheekily, relief flooding me that I hadn't managed to fuck this up yet. Whatever Rose had said, maybe it hadn't been so bad after all.

I remembered all the things I'd done to Rose over the time we'd known each other—the cheating, the boozing, the flagrant disregard for her feelings, the complete and utter disrespect—and I realized that Bella must be crazy. There was no telling that I could actually do this. Wanting to do it and _actually _doing it were two different beasts, and so far, when push had come to shove, I hadn't even been able to confess that I simply _liked _her. I hadn't even been able to say the fucking word.

"You're up early," she said, smiling up at me with all the electric power of the sun outside. "I didn't think rock stars woke up before noon."

Rock stars. _Music._ Jasper's advice echoed in my head and it was suddenly and painfully obvious what I could do.

"I'm going to the recording studio today," I confessed. "To start the next Athair album. And I was wondering if you'd like to come with me."

Bella gaped at me, and it appeared that even after all the time we'd spent together, I could still surprise her.

"It would mean a lot to me," I said in a rush, knowing if I examined at the words too closely, I'd never be able to say them because of their frightening resemblance to "_I like you_."

Still, she just stood there, shell-shocked apparently, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Speechless Bella hadn't been all that great for me in the past, so I was worried that I'd done what I'd feared and driven her away instead of indicating to her how much I . . .well. . .how much I wanted her with me.

"Please?" I tacked on, feeling lame and stupid and about a million shades of pussy. Edward Cullen didn't say please. He didn't beg. He didn't crawl. He didn't put a woman's needs before his own.

Until now.

"I don't know," Bella said haltingly. "I don't . . ." She took a deep breath. "I just woke up. I haven't even had breakfast yet."

"We can pick food up on the way," I said in a rush. "Anything you want."

She looked up at me, understanding dawning across her face. "You mean it; you really want me to go with you."

"I asked you for a reason," I said, annoyed that she'd think I'd ask if I didn't want her. I was Edward Cullen, and I didn't waste energy on things that weren't worthwhile.

"I don't think I should," Bella said, but she still sounded uncertain, and I placed 95% of the blame for that on me- for being an ass for nearly all of my life- and 5% on Rose for telling her about it. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Listen, I know what you're worried about," I finally said. "Rose talked to you."

Bella looked down at her feet, and I hated Renee or whoever else it was in her past that had made her so unsure of herself. Of the effect she could have on people. On me. "She did," she said quietly.

"I've done a lot of things in my life that I'm not proud of," I admitted. I was fraying, faster and faster every second, and I needed to be with her, closer to her, with the hope that some of her calm could rub off on me.

"You forget," she said wryly, "I was your biggest fan. I've heard all the rumors, and at one point, assumed that most of them were probably somewhat factual. I came into this with my eyes wide open, Edward."

"And now you're leaving this the same way." I couldn't believe how steady my voice was; I couldn't believe how much I was disintegrating inside. Or how Bella had come to mean so much to my sanity.

She shrugged. "I was going to go into town, try to focus on my blog, maybe continue to avoid Renee. It's hard to do that here, in this paradise where you don't even have to hang your own towels up or pour your own coffee. Living like I do, it makes me hungry for what I want. I need to remember that I'm more than this."

"You do," I agreed, "but even more than that, you need to remove that wall that you've put up between yourself and the music. You said you're detached. Come to the studio and smell the blood and the sweat and the struggle. See what it's really like."

"You just want me to come with you," she said with a little smile. Her first since I'd approached her.

"I do," I said. "Rose was right—essentially I'm a selfish bastard. You calm me, you make it possible for me to put one foot in front of the other."

Her eyes widened in surprise at my admission, and I supposed it sounded. . .well. . ._needy_. I nearly choked on my thick tongue as more words tumbled out. "But it's good for you too—you need to find your connection to the music, and I think this would help you."

It was the best I could do in the situation; if she said no, it wouldn't be because I hadn't done everything I was capable of doing. No doubt Jasper or Carlisle would have added a few ballerina spins or a dozen red roses or some girly smelling candles, but it was a start.

But she didn't say no. "Alright," she said. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready to go."

* * *

Carlisle and I had decided on the plan for Athair's next album long before the kidnapping—in fact, he'd made the suggestion right after the train wreck that had been _Aiming to Misbehave_. "A whole album of traditional Irish songs," he'd pitched to me one night when we'd both had too much to drink, "but each one has a Edward Cullen sick twist. Something raunchy, something perverse. Something unexpected."

I hadn't loved the idea so much as I'd loved the concept that if this album crashed and burned like the last one had, at least I wouldn't be the one solely at fault for the mess. On _Aiming to Misbehave_, I'd wanted to be free of the yoke of oppression, so I'd demanded that every single creative decision on the album be mine.

Well, it turned out there was a reason I'd had handlers before, and that reason was because I needed limits, I needed people to tell me which ideas to weed out because they were terrible. Otherwise, I'd end up running full steam off a cliff, which was exactly what I'd done.

Our drive to the studio was quiet—me contemplating how I was going to turn beloved Irish songs into something edgy yet worth listening to, and Bella writing steadily on a legal pad, filling page after page with words I wished I could read.

The studio we were headed to was only half an hour away from Esme's house. It was the studio I'd done my first recordings in, a place I felt comfortable and secure, and while I hadn't used it in awhile, Carlisle had made the executive decision that I should go back. The symbolism wasn't lost on me—Carlisle clearly hoped that with the nostalgic surroundings, I'd be able to return to my old musical self.

It had been a smart gesture before the kidnapping, but now it was just a useless one. I was too altered, probably irrevocably by what I'd learned and what I'd experienced. Whatever ended up coming out of me for the next few weeks—good, bad or shiteous—wouldn't be anything like what I'd done before.

I made an unassuming entrance for a rock star, and an even more unassuming entrance for me, but crap like entourages and attention and paparazzi dogging my every movement didn't matter anymore. Still, it felt odd to walk in just Bella and I, me carrying the old guitar case that I'd found in my closet at Esme's house.

I felt Bella tense next to me as a tall, willowy woman with hair the color of a copper penny approached us in the otherwise empty lobby.

"I'm Victoria James, from your label," she said with clipped tones as she extended her hand. "I'm here to assist you with anything you'll require during your sessions."

I shook her hand, wondering that if I didn't, she'd force me to by sheer strength of will. Victoria was beautiful, but hard-edged, as if she'd filed away every soft corner that dared to exist. Her black suit was austere, and only emphasized the incandescent flame of her hair. Frankly, I thought she looked like a suit, a placeholder from the label ordered to manipulate me into delivering whatever the fuck they'd decided they wanted from me.

I hated the bitch on sight.

"And are you Carlisle?" she directed at Bella. "Edward's manager?"

I laughed humorlessly. "Carlisle? He's not here," I corrected as Bella looked up at me bewildered. "This is my friend, Bella Swan. She's with me and she's to do whatever she wants."

"Why isn't Carlisle here?" Victoria persisted, as I tried to blow by her and walk into the studio, but she followed close behind me and Bella.

"I didn't want him here," I snapped. "And I don't want you here, either." The very last thing I needed was a cold, hard-edged bitch from the label, with zero musical knowledge or taste, to tell me what to do.

Victoria, however, was clearly made of sterner stuff than the other representatives they'd sent in the past. Usually, Carlisle dealt with them, but I'd gotten adept at reducing them to sniveling, insecure blobs who crawled back to the label utter failures at what they'd been sent to do—ultimately control me and the music I made. Victoria didn't seem like she could be controlled.

"I'm afraid that you don't have much of a choice," she said, her posture ramrod straight, like it had been carved from pure steel. And that was nothing compared to the icy control in her pale blue eyes. "I know you have a history of being a rather. . .temperamental artist in the studio, and it's my job to make sure that we stay focused."

The allusion to the all-night drunken sessions, where women had been passed around between musicians like party favors, was not appreciated, and I felt Bella grow even tenser next to me, her expression wiped clean of any emotion.

I leaned down towards her, my breath displacing a few strands of her hair as I whispered in her ear. "Get rid of her. Please?"

I saw the shock of recognition in her eyes, and the determination. She hadn't expected me to use her to deal with Victoria, but being someone who'd watched my career for years, Bella would know how I'd feel about her. She'd understand that my creativity would be stifled with this bitch watching and listening to every note I played.

"Victoria, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions," Bella said, and I wasn't shocked at all that Bella's tone of voice demanded obedience. Bella was a lot of things, but she'd never shirk from a challenge, and Victoria was waving the red flag right in her face.

Victoria hesitated, clearly wanting to say no, but also not wanting to displease me. She finally relented, with a swift, telling look in my direction. "Of course. Bella, you said your name was?" Victoria asked as Bella led them away to sit in a pair of comfortable chairs in the lobby. "And you're who exactly?"

I let out the breath I'd been holding, and stepped into the studio, closing the door behind me.

I'd worked with all the musicians that Carlisle had sent before—not necessarily together, and some not for many years, but I noticed a few similarities between the diverse group.

First, they were all older, experienced, more of the mentoring types, than the young hotshots who were just playing with you to collect a paycheck to fuel their own solo career dreams.

Second, not a single one had been in the studio with me during the _Aiming to Misbehave _disaster. Carlisle might not be present for this session, but he didn't have to be for his message to come across loud and clear: stop the rock star posturing shit, and make some real music that people might actually want to listen to.

I tuned my guitar as the men around me warmed up, the discordant cacophony leaving me edgy and nervous. Conor, the other guitarist, handed me a list. We'd worked together before—many, many years before, but he'd quit the band as I'd spiraled out of control—and I didn't know what Carlisle had said to get him to return, but he was in front of me, ready to play, and I was unbelievably glad to see him. His playing and his presence had steadied and reassured me at one time. Of course, that was before I'd discovered that whiskey and women steadied and reassured me better than just about anything else.

"Carlisle said that today, we should tackle the_ Black Velvet Band_," Conor said, giving me a metaphorical push that was about as gentle as a bulldozer.

I looked up from my guitar into the grizzled faces around us, through the dark glass that separated the recording studio from the engineer's booth and to my surprise, saw Bella curled up in one of the chairs, scribbling away on her pad. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

"I fucking hate that song," I said, surprising both myself and the men around me. "We're not doing it."

"What are we doing then?" one of them asked.

"We're doing something else," I said, feeling a lot less confident than I sounded. "We'll get back to that other. . .stuff later. I want to work on an original song first."

It sounded good, like I knew exactly what I was doing, like I _had _original material to work with, which I didn't.

And because I didn't know what else to do, I began to play the chord progression that had haunted my thoughts during my incarceration with Bella. The same melody and rhythm that I'd played on the rails of the bed; the melody I'd hummed to calm myself whenever I'd wanted to attack Jane or my uncle.

I wouldn't have shared it if I had another choice—it felt too personal, too close to that raw place inside of me that screamed of betrayal and death and destruction—but I didn't. And the thought of playing Irish music right now was even worse, so I chose the lesser of the two evils.

Conor picked it up and we wove around each other, driving the melody forward. It was starkly beautiful, but had a defiantly melancholic edge to it. I'd never written something so dark before—I wasn't exactly known for the kind of emo angst that the melody begged for.

But the best part was that it had absolutely no Irish or Gaelic influences whatsoever. Nobody said this, but then nobody had to. Athair was an Irish punk band, but what I was playing—without the artifice of accordion or fiddle or whistle—felt like just straight nihilistic rock music. And for the first time, I didn't give a shit that I wasn't playing for the one person that I'd dedicated my entire musical career to.

In the middle of the chord progression, a phrase began to form in my head, and no matter how I tried to push it away, push it down, deep, where it would never resurface, it wouldn't be dismissed. And that was how I discovered that I was writing a song.

I'd never written one this way before, and it was so unsettling that I abruptly stopped, setting my guitar down in the stand. "I'll be right back," I announced to the confused looking guys who I was pretty sure would become my band. We'd just made something magical—something beautiful out of a dark place that couldn't be beautiful if it wanted to be.

I could tell from a few of the looks I got that a few of them were convinced I was headed to the bathroom to do a few lines, or get a blowjob, but instead, I headed to the engineer's booth.

Bella was still writing, her legs folded up underneath her, creating a kind of table out of her lap that she was using to balance her pad on. She was so absorbed writing that she didn't even notice me for a moment or two. Finally, I cleared my throat and she glanced up in shock. "Edward," she said, "what's going on? Is it not going well?"

I shrugged, afraid that if I told her that it was going both incredibly different than I'd expected and incredibly well that I would jinx it. "Can I have some paper? And a pen? I need to write something down."

She frowned. "I thought you knew you'd be writing. Why don't you have your own?"

"I wasn't supposed to be doing original material," I explained. "I was going to do an album of basically covers. That was the plan anyway."

"And now?"

"No covers," I said, surprising myself again by how definite the decision sounded.

"An Athair album of new material," she said with a small smile, "you know I'd like that."

Neither of us wanted to mention the elephant in the room—that the last album of new Athair material had been a failure of epic proportions, and that she'd used her skewering of it to generate blog hits. I honestly didn't want to know what she'd said about it; I could only imagine how beautifully she'd manage to tear it down like the crap it was.

Bella ripped a few sheets of paper out of her notebook. "If you need more, you'll know where to find me," she said seriously as she handed me the paper and a pen she took out of her purse.

"I hate to ask, but where'd you send the witch?" I asked, glancing around.

"Oh, she's around," Bella said airily, "but she won't bother you. Trust me." Her expression was positively innocent, but I could tell from the mischievous gleam in her eye that she was proud of how well she'd manipulated and controlled Victoria.

"Thank you," I told her, wanting to kiss her, but at the same time, not wanting to have the musicians' assumptions proved correct. I hadn't come in here to steal a kiss from her, and I was proud that I might be able to walk away, to do this without the normal crutches that I typically used to sustain myself through periods of stress and self-doubt.

Sure, Bella's presence calmed me better than the best whiskey, but she wasn't my normal kind of drug.

She wasn't a drug at all.

Back in the studio, I scribbled down the sentence that had haunted me down.

Conor leaned over my shoulder, humming the melody that we'd worked on before I'd left. "It's . . .interesting," he finally said.

"And by interesting, you mean it's shit," I stated, suddenly afraid that he'd tell me the truth.

"No. It's different. Not like you."

"That might not be a bad thing," I admitted.

He wouldn't tell me that I was on the right track—but the single look of begrudged respect he gave me was the first I'd ever received from him. "Write some more," he barked. "I'm going to work on this opening melody some more. "

"Leave it bare," another voice called out. "Bring in the instruments slowly. Like this." I looked up to see the bass player, Ben, strumming along in a slowly building crescendo of sound. It sounded exactly like I'd felt every day in that cabin, locked up and waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

I turned back to the lyrics, and re-read the single sentence I'd scribbled down.

_Keep you in the dark; you know they all pretend._

It was good, but I could do better, and I began to write, laying down slowly building words that mirrored the escalating tension the guys around me were weaving like magic.

And nothing had ever felt so fucking good. Better than whiskey sliding down my throat, oblivion beckoning, or the moment I walked into a club and the hottest woman in the entire place attached herself to my side.

The _Aiming to Misbehave _tracks had been written—and that was a loose term—in a haze of drugs and alcohol and ego. This song was a labor of sweat and agony, and nothing had ever felt so good. Like for the first time, I was remembering what it was to be a musician, to be a creative force of energy and determination.

Music wasn't supposed to be easy, wasn't supposed to be handed to you on a fucking silver platter; music was supposed to be 99.9% grinding torture and .1% ecstatic pleasure, and for the first time in my career, it felt as if I'd finally discovered the right ratio.

Conor, the boys, and I slaved for hours over the opening chords and the words, layering and sliding them together until we finally reached a combination that was both haunting and horrific.

As the sounds faded away, I gripped the neck of my guitar convulsively, the wood slippery under my sweaty hand, and felt the darkness of that room closing around me again. Instinctively, I looked up into the engineer's booth and found Bella up at the window, her eyes expressive, fascinated. And she was staring right at me.

"Break for the day," I said in a strangled voice. "But we're back, first thing tomorrow morning. We'll finish the song."

The guys began to pack up their instruments, and Conor walked over to me, his hand resting on my shoulder as I set the guitar into its case. My eyes still hadn't left Bella's, and even though I knew the connection should have scared the ever loving shit out of me, I craved it too much to be afraid. "You know," Conor said casually, glancing at me and at then at her, "I wondered when you would find it."

"Find what?" I asked, as Bella broke our contact and looked away. I thought he was probably talking about me finding a girl that I didn't use like a piece of trash. He'd had definite opinions on my treatment of the groupies that chased after me, and he hadn't had any problems voicing them to the young punk kid that I'd been.

"Your voice," he said, with a final clap on my shoulder, before he turned to pack up his own guitar. "You found your voice."

* * *

Conor's words resonated with me as I climbed into the limo with Bella for the drive back to Esme's house. Honestly, I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. If anything, I'd always had an incredibly strong musical voice. Athair had made one kind of music for its entire existence, each song clearly sounding like it belonged to our catalog. I wondered if Bella, since she was such an Athair fan, and also hopelessly opinionated about just about everything, might have some idea what he'd been talking about.

"So how did it go?" she asked as the door closed behind us and the limo pulled out of the driveway.

Though she'd been pointedly writing in her notebook for almost the entire session, I had a fairly good idea that she'd been watching me surreptitiously and knew exactly how it had gone. She just wanted me to tell her, and I was as surprised as anyone that I actually _wanted _to.

"It went pretty well, actually," I admitted.

"You didn't think it would?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know," I shrugged, not wanting to tell her all about my doubts as a musician after the kidnapping. "It's hard to say how any given recording session will go."

"But you didn't record anything," she said.

"Not yet, no. I'm . ..well. . ." I corrected, "_we're _working on a new song. An original song."

"_We're_?"

I wondered if Bella would catch that; being the Athair fan that she was, she'd be aware that the only consistent member of the band over the years had been me. The other members had rotated through at a fairly rapid clip, and I'd been the exclusive songwriter. Nobody had ever been allowed to contribute or collaborate.

"They're helping," I said more than a little defensively, suddenly afraid that I'd divulged too much, and that she'd pounce on my sudden weakness.

But was it really a weakness? I wasn't sure anymore. Everything that I'd once believed about men and women and fear and domination had undertaken a rather abrupt shift the moment I'd met Bella Swan.

"Good," she said with a teasing smile. "I was hoping they might. You're not an island, you know. Even Edward Cullen needs some help sometimes."

What she didn't seem to realize was that every moment I spent with her, she was helping me. Helping me overcome that man I'd been—helping me to shed the dirty, noxious skin of the boozing womanizer. And without even thinking through the implications of what I was doing, I reached for her, pulling her into my arms, wrapping myself around her as if I could keep her like this forever.

Bella tensed for a second, and I wasn't sure if it was because she was surprised by my actions or if she didn't want me touching her, but then her muscles relaxed, and she settled into my embrace. I didn't remember the first time I'd held a woman just because I wanted to feel the reassuring press of her body against mine. Usually, the only time I touched a female was because I wanted something from them—something that involved tits and ass and pussy. But Bella was more than just the sum of those parts, she was incalculably valuable, and it wasn't just because of those physical features.

"I thought you were angry," I admitted, my voice low and quiet, as if I was afraid she'd actually hear me and know how much I'd hated the thought that she was upset with me.

She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, and placed a hand on my shoulder. "This isn't easy for me," she murmured.

It wouldn't be; I kept expecting her to discover that the price to give me this chance would be more than she wanted to pay.

"I can't promise you anything," I said, and to my horror, I felt my throat grow tight at the hope in her eyes. I hated the thought of breaking her, of destroying what we'd created, but I knew myself better than that. I would do it—it was probably only a matter of time.

"I know." Her lips were so close to mine, and I really wanted to kiss her, to use the only means I had to reassure her that I would try, but it didn't seem like enough—a novel experience for a man who had always used physicality to express anything he'd ever wanted to say to a woman.

But it must have been enough, because she kissed _me_, tangling her fingers in my hair and pulling me closer towards her.

I'd been terrified of myself around her for almost the entirety of knowing Bella—terrified that I would destroy her ,and the final chance at redemption for myself—but as she pushed me back against the leather seats, her mouth slanting hard and determined against mine, I wondered if I shouldn't be more scared of her.

She'd dismissed Victoria so easily, stood up against Jane and Aro, been willing to make a sacrifice that I hadn't even been willing to contemplate. Her periods of fear and weakness only seemed to emphasize her inherent strength.

Her hands slid up underneath the hem of my shirt, and my heartbeat stuttered in time with her fingers as they undid the buckle of my belt.

"What are you doing?" I asked stupidly, reminding myself of all the naïvely flirtatious groupies who hadn't understood or hadn't wanted to understand what I was always after.

Bella gave me a look—the one I liked to call her "what the fuck, Edward?" look—and I explained sheepishly, "I know what you're doing. I want to know what you're _doing_."

"Exactly what you think I'm _doing_ doing," she said impudently, and I decided it would be a really good time to stop arguing.

Even if I hadn't decided that it was verging on insane for arguing with a beautiful woman who wanted to screw me senseless in the back of a limo, her tongue in my mouth and her hand on my cock would have shut me up.

My head tipped back on the leather seat, and Bella took advantage by jerking my pants down and climbing right on top of me. "Eager, are we?" I asked, my breathing coming in unmanly pants as she pushed her own jeans down and without any preamble, slid me inside of her.

She didn't respond verbally, but her erratic breaths told me everything I needed to hear as she rode me fast and furious, pushing me over the edge as her teeth latched onto my t-shirt clad shoulder.

Slumping against me, she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I felt that same tightness in my throat at the simple gesture. Technically, I was still inside of her, and that was the most physically intimate connection that you could have, but I thought that maybe the hug meant more.

She started to move off of me, but I gripped her waist, holding her down. "Don't go," I whispered into the damp, sweaty tangles of her hair.

"I'm not leaving," she said, trying to wiggle out of my grasp. "I just. . .we're going to be there soon."

I didn't even need her to explain what she was trying to say—because I got it. While she was alright with us doing this in private, with the dark glass partition up, with nobody the wiser, she didn't want anyone to know what we were doing. I released my hold on her with a pessimistic sigh, and wondered if I would ever stop regretting acting like a total asshole for so many years.

If it meant that Bella was going to be ashamed of me forever, then probably, yes—I'd never stop regretting it.

I watched as she tidied her clothes, pulling her jeans back up, brushing through her matted hair with her fingers. Face flushed and eyes bright, she was ridiculously beautiful, and I wondered why for all those years, I'd been addicted to superficial, fake blond, fake boobed, overly tanned groupies. Jasper, I couldn't help but think, had been right all this time.

"You didn't tell me about Victoria," I said as we pulled into the drive. "I was really looking forward to hearing about how you told her off."

Bella laughed. "Let me guess, because me and a beautiful woman getting in a fight turns you on. Don't you think you've had enough of that in the last half an hour?"

"Absolutely not," I told her seriously. "Don't tease me now. That's just not nice."

"Actually," Bella said, "I was just really, _really _honest with her. No oil wrestling or hair pulling or spanking or anything."

"I have to admire your restraint."

"Uh huh," Bella said, rolling her eyes. "Because that's such a characteristic of mine."

"Well, I genuinely admire the restraint you just showed."

"Oh, I'm sure you did," she said with a chuckle. "A lot."

"When you say you were honest, what exactly does that mean?" I asked her, wondering for half a second if Bella had said anything that I wouldn't want her to say.

But of course this was Bella, and she wouldn't. "Oh, I just told her that if she didn't leave you alone, you'd insist on releasing a deluxe version of _Aiming to Misbehave_," she said impudently.

"Reduced to a punchline," I sighed, "but at least it's an effective one."

"Very effective," Bella said with a smile as she leaned her head on my shoulder. "But really, you should be thanking me, she was _awful_. Not, you know, _Jane _awful," she said, her voice dropping, "but close enough."

"I think I already thanked you," I said, fishing my phone out of my pocket as it vibrated with an incoming text message.

"No, that was me thanking _you_," Bella clarified with a mischievous glance.

The text was from Jasper and apparently he was bailing on our evening of MLB 2010 and pizza to take Alice out for a romantic date. What a pussy.

"Well," I said, "good news. Jasper's going to stand me up, which means that I have a whole evening to thank you. How's that sound?" I asked her, placing a trail of kisses down the column of her neck. "Acceptable?"

"Yes," she sighed as my lips slid over her collarbone. "I suppose I could deal with that. But only as long as you actually feed me this time. My breakfast that was supposedly going to be whatever I wanted never materialized." Bella pulled away and gave me what could have been an accusatory glance if she hadn't been beaming.

"Fine. Dinner, and a whole evening of me thanking you. How's that sound?"

"Perfect," Bella said.

I was just going to have to pretend that what I'd suggested wasn't the pussified romantic evening that Jasper was spending with Alice. That what I was about to share with Bella wasn't a date.

Because Edward Cullen didn't date.

Until now.

* * *

**AN: Progress! Woo hoo, go Edward! So did anyone guess which song it is that Edward's writing? Everyone who guesses correctly gets an extra long teaser!**

**As for the next chapter, I honestly have no idea what it's called yet. . .sorry. I'm also not sure when it will be up next, though I'm hoping in a week or two :)**


	30. Deconstruction of a Dream

**AN: First off, abject apologies this took so long to update. When I took SotF off the schedule, I had no idea it was going to take me so long to write this next chapter. I also had no idea it was going to be over 10,000 words. But then you're reading this story, so I suppose you shouldn't be expecting brevity any time soon :)**

**Lyrics are from "Dreaming with a Broken Heart" by John Mayer-and the playlist is updated.**

**A huge thank you goes to my pre-reader, Dixie, who warms my heart, and my beta, Josie, who despite being sick as a dog, managed to beta this beast.**

* * *

**Chapter 29: Deconstruction of a Dream**

_When you're dreaming with a broken heart,_

_the waking up is the hardest part._

_You roll out of bed and down on your knees_

_and for a moment you can hardly breathe._

**Rosalie**

It was so warm—not just warm, but the absolute perfect balance of hot and cold—and I didn't want to open my eyes, I didn't want to detach myself from the arms that held me close, as if I was the most precious possession they could hope to win.

_Edward_, I thought drowsily, _he'd never held me like this before_. And in the witching hour, during this purgatory between sleeping and waking, I marveled at the sweetness buried inside this man that I thought I knew so well. See, I insisted to myself, he wasn't _all _bad. There was good even inside the worst of men.

But there was something off, something _wrong_. I couldn't exactly put my finger on it, but as I wiggled further into the silky sheets, I could practically taste it on my tongue. While I felt what must have been triumph at finally convincing Edward to stay the night with me, I wasn't sure I _wanted _him to. It wasn't Edward's arms I wanted around me, his breath on the sensitive skin of my neck, his legs tangled up with mine under the covers.

It took me a few moments for my half-asleep brain to grasp the concept—that it wasn't Edward that I wanted any longer. That it hadn't been Edward that I'd wanted for a long time now.

Reality seeped in bit by bit, memories crawling into my consciousness until a name leapt out and in my surprise, I murmured it, the sound on my lips sounding right and true. "Emmett," I breathed out, and though I hadn't even been talking to him, the man behind me grunted in response. With the familiar sound, the last two weeks focused into laser clarity in my mind. It was _Emmett _I was falling in love with. _Emmett _who I was with now.

It should have been a wonderful way to wake up, but instead I felt sick. I had, even for the briefest of moments, thought that I'd finally been the girl to discover Edward's good side, when I knew better. It hadn't been me—it had been Bella Swan instead.

I untangled my legs from Emmett's, pulled away, rolled out from under the covers despite how warm and lovely it felt to be with him underneath them. I didn't deserve it. I couldn't seem to conquer the inadequacy that had swamped me lately.

I grabbed my phone off the bedside table, and wrapping a robe around my underwear-clad body, tiptoed out onto the balcony, shutting the glass door firmly behind me.

I didn't even bother to glance at the time before I dialed the familiar number. A number that I'd been dialing with far too much frequency lately. I should be stronger than to rely on this crutch. If Emmett found out how much I needed this, he'd pull away and insist that he give me more time to come to terms with what had happened with Edward, and that wasn't acceptable.

Not just for me, because I wasn't sure what I'd do without him, but for himself as well. Alone in the world, without the protection that my name and my family offered, he was vulnerable, and I couldn't bear the thought of him hurt or terrorized by the same people who had forced him to kidnap one of his closest friends.

"Rose, it's early," she answered groggily, and I forced down the all-too familiar guilt. Gianna didn't even sound surprised these days.

"I had the dream again," I announced in a quiet murmur. "Just the same. I'm in Edward's arms and all I can think of is how I've won. And I want to do a fist pump right there. In bed. But of course it's not Edward at all. It's Emmett. The man I could possibly love."

"We've talked about this, Rosalie," Gianna said, the patient edge of her voice wearing thin. "You're feeling resentful of Bella. You think she succeeded where you failed. But her actions aren't a success, and yours weren't a failure. You just weren't a good match for Edward. That doesn't make you any less of a person."

"I don't want to feel this way," I said sulkily, annoyed with myself. Annoyed with Gianna. Annoyed with Edward, who had brought this on both of us. But most of all, I was annoyed with Bella for revealing the parts of Edward that I'd always dreamt of, but that I'd never found.

"I thought you said you felt better after you warned her. You said that you felt like you did it because you were genuinely concerned for her. That you were growing to like her as a person."

"I do like her," I insisted, and it wasn't even a lie. I did like Bella Swan. What I didn't like was how she'd changed Edward without even seeming to try, and how that change had reminded me of everything I wasn't.

"Then try to not to think of her as a winner and yourself as a loser. If you have to quantify either of you, you're _both _winners. She won Edward, and you won Emmett. Who you just admitted you could care for deeply."

"The crazy thing is that I _know _of the two, Emmett's the greater prize. I feel it. He's good for me, I'm good for him. I adore him. I don't know why I was ever wasting time with Edward when Emmett was right there, on the sidelines, loving me from afar."

"Rose, your dream isn't about you caring for Edward instead of Emmett. Your dream is about your self-esteem and your self-worth. We've talked about that," Gianna reminded me kindly.

"I know," I sighed. It had never made sense to me that Rosalie Hale, the girl who was adored all over the world, couldn't even like herself, and it still didn't.

"It'll get better," Gianna reassured me. "I told you this was a long process, and you've made great progress. But right now you're just in a bit of a rough patch, and being in such close proximity to Bella and Edward isn't helping. Maybe you and Emmett should get away for a little while."

"I don't know," I hesitated. "We're pretty alone here, strangely enough."

"Not that alone," Gianna said, and there was an odd tone in her voice that I couldn't place. "I'm honestly surprised that you called me about the dream. I was sure you were calling me about . . ." She paused and my stomach gave a sickening lurch. Whatever she was hesitant to say wasn't good news.

"What happened?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I thought you said you were careful when you went out. That there weren't any photographers," Gianna said.

"Oh god," I said in a rush, my stomach roiling with anxious nausea. "There were _pictures_? How bad?"

"Though I'm not your publicist and I don't know the intricacies of the media, I thought they were bad enough. I'm surprised she hasn't called you yet."

"She probably knows that I'll be furious that she didn't manage to buy them before they became public."

"You should call her," Gianna said gently. "I could have been wrong."

"I'm sure you weren't," I said flatly. "And I will. Right now."

"Give me a call later if you need to talk," Gianna reminded me, though we both knew that if the pictures were as bad as I feared they were, I would definitely be calling her later. To talk me off the metaphorical cliff.

"Thanks," I said, pressing the end button. I'd turned my phone on silent overnight, and of course, that was when the story had broke—the first pictures of Edward in weeks, with me and Emmett in proximity, plus Bella? It was going to be bad, and I wasn't surprised to see a list of ten missed calls, all from my publicist, Leah.

I dialed her number with shaky fingers, and held the phone to my ear. She answered on the second ring.

"Clearwater," she barked. "Talk to me."

"It's Rosalie," I said hesitantly. "I . . ."

"It's about damn time you called me back," Leah informed me with an edgy tone. "What did I tell you about turning your phone off?"

"It was just on silent," I defended, "and I was out with my boyfriend. I forgot to turn it back on until this morning."

"Which one?"

My legs wouldn't hold me anymore. I collapsed ungracefully on the chaise lounge and buried my face in my hands. "It's that bad?"

"On a scale of one to ten, it's about a thousand. You don't want to know what they're saying."

She was right; I didn't want to hear. But it would be better knowing than not knowing. "Tell me," I insisted.

"Oh, the usual Rosalie Hale is a slut, a whore, has zero self-respect. Watching Edward get it on with a random, beautiful girl. They have a few shots of you with Emmett, and those are making the rounds with talk of polyamorism and partner swapping."

"You were right," I groaned. "I didn't want to know. What I want to know is how these managed to go public? Didn't the photographers contact you first? You know I'd have authorized you spending any amount of money to get them before they went public."

"Sorry, Hale. They didn't call me. I didn't get wind of it until the auction was over. And by then, it was too late." Leah Clearwater usually didn't bother with regret _or _sympathy, but I could hear both in her voice this morning—and that made the whole thing even worse. "So is this what you warned me about?"

I'd called her after Edward and Bella's abduction by Emmett and had warned her that there was something big that could possibly get out—which was what I was supposed to do. What Leah didn't know could only hurt her.

"No," I added quietly. "This isn't it."

"Great," Leah snapped. "Do you have any good news for me? Anything at all? Who's the new boyfriend?"

"Emmett."

Leah made an incredulous sound over the phone, and I didn't blame her. From a publicity standpoint, I couldn't have picked anyone worse. "But I do have good news," I persevered. "I'm starting a business. A serious business. With someone who isn't famous. I bet you that she wasn't even in the pictures because she's totally off the radar."

"Tiny girl, dark hair? Nope, no good. Photographs have her with Jasper Whitlock that night, and then last night, they went out to dinner in Hyannis Port. Small, quiet restaurant, but paps got them leaving. She's on the radar now."

"Damn it." It wasn't just that I wanted to use Alice as leverage to dig myself out of the media nightmare that I'd created for myself, but I knew what it felt like to be scrutinized every day of your life, and I didn't want Alice to have to suffer through that. "What do you suggest?" I finally asked, because I knew that Leah didn't think in problems—she thought in solutions—and I knew that 24 hours had passed since she'd discovered the auction and the photographs. That was plenty of time for her to come up with a plan that she'd talk me into.

"You're not going to like it," she said flatly, and I rolled my eyes—as if this was news. I usually didn't like Leah's strategies, but I couldn't deny they were almost always effective.

"Actually," Leah continued, "I was going to do a different direction initially, but something you just said gave me a great idea."

"Not Emmett," I countered. "I won't have his face plastered everywhere."

"Sweetheart, his face is _already _plastered everywhere. It's time to figure out how much he likes you, and also the size of his cojones."

"His cojones are plenty big, thank you very much," I said stiffly, because I couldn't think, I almost couldn't _breathe_. Emmett's picture was going to be everywhere; it already _was _everywhere. Since he'd returned with Bella and Edward, we'd talked about the way the Red Hands had blackmailed him, and how they could still hurt him, if they could find him.

And now his picture was everywhere. I felt ill, but I couldn't tell Leah that. She didn't know anything about Edward being kidnapped, or the Red Hands, or anything that had happened in the last two weeks. I'd considered it, but then had thought better of it—because then if she was ever asked, she'd have plausible deniability.

I cleared my throat, trying to gather what was left of my wits together. "Could you please tell me what we're going to do about all this?"

"We need to go on the offensive. Instead of issuing denials, statements, etc, etc, we need to own the news cycle." Leah's words sparked something inside of me. Maybe that was what Emmett and I needed to do with the problem of the Red Hands. Go on the offensive—because sitting around waiting for him to be terrorized or attacked was beginning to wear both of us down.

"Explain."

There was a long pause, in which my stomach—already near the vicinity of my knees—dropped to my ankles. "Sweetheart," Leah said calmly, "I think you need to give some serious thought to your future."

"My future?"

"Your future with Emmett," Leah clarified. "That's the plan. You need to get yourself engaged and fast. Right now everyone thinks that you're just screwing Emmett on the side to get back at Edward for screwing everything in his vicinity. You look like the desperate victim."

I wanted to tell Leah that I _was _a desperate victim—or at least I had been—but I swallowed back the words. Nobody except Gianna had to know how poorly I'd thought of myself. "Engaged?" I asked instead. "But we just started dating."

"I know," Leah said, so patiently that for a second I wanted to ask her if she was alright—but it was my alrightness that I was more concerned with. The direction this was going had me more than a little concerned. "That's the issue; you need to demonstrate that you and Emmett isn't some fling, that you two are serious. The best way to get that message across is to slide a diamond solitaire on a significant finger and pose for some lovely pictures."

"You're serious." We'd joked around only moments before about how much I wouldn't like her suggestion, but the reality was, the idea of forcing Emmett into making a commitment to me—who couldn't even remember in my half-waking dreams that we were together now—made me physically ill.

But not as ill as the thought of Emmett at the mercy of the Red Hands. If they thought he was protected and safe, Rosalie Hale's _fiancé—_then maybe they'd leave him alone. He would definitely be more visible, and if he went missing or was hurt in any way, the world would know about it because I couldn't walk outside my house most mornings without it being on every gossip blog.

Emmett wouldn't probably ever be _that _visible, but with an engagement ring on my finger, the world would definitely sit up and take notice of the man who had put it there.

"If you don't want to do it," Leah began to say, but I cut her off before she could finish. "I'll do it." This wouldn't fix the Red Hand problem entirely, but it would help a lot, and if that meant I could rest easier at night, it would have to suffice. Plus, it also addressed the pesky issue of my reputation, which I wasn't surprised to hear was in tatters from Edward's knife-edged ego.

I didn't think I'd ever left Leah Clearwater speechless—words were her currency and she used a lot of them—but she was dead silent for a moment. "Alright," she finally said. "I'll call _People_, I think I can swing that one. _US Weekly _is a bit too Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt these days."

"Agreed," I said wryly. "Let's try to keep it classy."

"Rose, you know. . ." Leah began and then paused, clearing her throat. "You know this doesn't have to be _real _real. It's just a ring on a significant finger, some posed pictures, and you talking a lot about how blissfully happy Emmett's made you."

"I know," I said calmly. "I know how this all works."

"Of course. Of course you do. You've been famous for . . . well . . ."

"My whole life," I finished for her. Any naivety I'd had about the world and what celebrities did in it had been stripped away a long time ago.

"Right. Well, I'll call you back in an hour or two, when I have the deal all set with the magazine. I think the sooner the better—they'll want to jump all over this before anyone else has a chance to scoop them. I think we can probably get a photographer out there today, if they have someone they want to use on the East Coast."

"Today's fine," I told Leah. "My whole week's wide open, but I think that this is pretty timely. Let's get it done as quickly as possible."

"Good. Stay strong, babe." Leah clicked off, and I sat there, on Esme's balcony, overlooking the ocean and tried to decide how I was going to tell Emmett that not only we were engaged, but that we had to tell the whole world about it this afternoon.

But first, I had to tell Edward about the pictures.

* * *

I paused outside the door of Bella's bedroom—I wasn't dumb enough to think they slept in Edward's bed; she would be smart enough to wait until he came to her, unlike me, who had always forced herself on him—and listened for any tell-tale noises that they weren't only sleeping. But there was only silence, so I opened the door without knocking.

They were still asleep, and as I walked closer to the bed, something hard and unbearably sharp-edged settled in my ribcage.

Bella could have been me—but not the real me, the me in the dreams I still had all the time. The dreams where Edward held me all night long and never wanted to let me go. The dreams where Edward had a soft, romantic side that made his tortured artist act so much more bearable.

I looked down at them and wanted to cry—wished I could cry, but the despair at the scene in front of me, at my own reaction to it, was too deep, too pervasive for tears. I wasn't jealous of Bella because she had Edward, but instead because she'd managed to fall, effortlessly, into the one position that I'd always craved. Without even trying, she'd discovered the inner beauty deep inside the beast.

"Edward," I croaked out of a suddenly tight throat. "I need to talk to you."

He opened his eyes slowly, and he didn't even seem surprised to see Bella curled into him like he was a human pillow. If he'd ever woken up and found me too close, he would have pitched a fit. Now, he just gazed down at her with unguarded, almost foolish amusement, as if she was part of a private joke that I didn't understand. And then he looked back up at me, standing at the foot of the bed he was sharing with Bella, and his expression grew noticeably colder.

I knew he wouldn't be happy with me for warning Bella, but I couldn't have done anything else. It had to be said. She couldn't go on without knowing that he'd always tried to pretend he was different, but he'd never actually changed.

Except this time, I thought with brewing annoyance. It seemed that I might have been wrong after all—at least if the way he'd looked at the still-sleeping Bella was any indication.

"What do you want?" he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up. I told myself not to notice that he was naked—but it was hard not to. I told myself not to think about what he and Bella had done the night before—but it was impossible not to.

I took an involuntary step back, wishing that I'd waited until they were downstairs and fully clothed, and . . .I don't know. . .a little less _happy_. "Pictures," I stuttered out. "There were pictures taken at the bar, and they hit the blogs late last night. I just talked to Leah."

Edward's eyes narrowed, and I could tell he was pissed, though why exactly that was, I didn't know. He didn't have a reputation to destroy, and if anything, this whole scenario would add to his whole rock star cred. I'd never really hated him before, but I kind of hated him now. Or maybe that was myself, I thought tiredly. It was hard to keep track anymore.

"Just of me and you? What about Bella? Did they get take any of her?"

Of course, I vented bitterly, he would only care about his poor, sweet Bella's reputation. Screw Rosalie and any self-respect she had left.

"I guess so," I said, because even though I hadn't seen the pictures personally, it didn't make sense that they would have missed an opportunity to prove that Edward had moved on so visibly to another woman. Right in front of me.

Suddenly, I was exhausted—of the drama, of the gossip, of the bullshit. All I wanted was to go back to my room, crawl in next to Emmett's warm body, and fall asleep. But I'd made this bed, and I was going to have to lie in it.

"Great. Fucking great," Edward grumbled. "I hate those fucking bastards."

"Well, you're not the one getting skewered as a whore," I retorted. "They got me with Emmett. Right in front of you."

Edward shrugged, as if he could have cared less. And I supposed that I shouldn't have expected that he would, but the reality still stung. "Fine," I flung back at him. "But just so you know, I'm taking steps to alleviate my public image, and protect Emmett while I'm at it, so don't worry about it."

"I wasn't going to," he said.

"Of course you weren't." I turned on my heel and left the room, shutting the door not very quietly behind me. If I'd stayed any longer, I might have killed Edward, and that would be unfortunate to happen right as he was discovering that he might have a few measly bits of humanity in him.

Even if they existed, it shouldn't have surprised me that he wouldn't let me see them. I hated how he treated me, but even more, I hated that I'd let him for so fucking long.

But most of all, I hated that there was some residual part of me that still wanted him, despite everything that he'd done to ruin me, and everything Emmett had done to save what Edward had left behind. It wasn't fair. Emmett should be the one I was dreaming about every night, not some egotistical, fucked up, washed up rock star who'd fallen in love with _someone else_.

I paused in front of the door to the bedroom I was sharing with Emmett, but I didn't go inside. I couldn't face him, not when I felt the rage and hurt still churning inside me from the confrontation with Edward. Emmett deserved better than that.

I didn't want to face it, but the more I thought about it, the more I believed that he didn't deserve me. I was way too fucked up to be worth his time, but I was selfish and I didn't want to let him go. So to even out the score a little, I'd do whatever I could to protect him from the Red Hands. If that meant marrying him, then it meant making that lifelong commitment. Of course I wasn't under any delusions as to who was getting the better end of the deal—it was definitely me.

I walked down the stairs and into the breakfast room. Esme was sitting alone, a cup of coffee in front of her and an open newspaper. She looked up, a softness in her face and in her eyes that I hadn't seen in her before she and Carlisle had started sneaking around. They thought, I was sure, that we didn't all know what was going on, but we knew better. He was head over heels in love with her, and I didn't think she was all that far behind him, though it was pretty clear she was fighting it.

But this morning she just looked peaceful and happy. "Good morning, Rose," she said with uncharacteristic smile. "How did you sleep?"

"Terrible," I admitted to her as I sat down in a chair, pulling my robe tighter around my body. "I had bad dreams."

"Oh, no. That's unfortunate," Esme said sympathetically.

I shrugged. "They're pretty normal these days. Gianna is helping me work through them."

"I'm glad, dear. You're too strong of a person to live under that cloud forever, and I might add, you have too fine of a man who loves you to live in the past."

"About that," I said hesitantly. "There were some pictures . .."

"Oh no. Not the paparazzi again," Esme said, disapproval for the rogue photographers evident in her voice. "Is there going to be trouble? Should I call for additional security?"

I really hoped that there wouldn't be media camped in front of the estate—none of us wanted to deal with that—but I shook my head. Hopefully, the _People _story would alleviate the curiosity and settle the matter once and for all. "I think you'll be fine. I'm going to give an interview. Emmett and I both, actually . . ." I trailed off. I didn't want to tell Esme the plan before I had a chance to tell Emmett. If I was going to drag him into marrying me, the least I could do was ask him first before I announced our engagement to everyone else.

"Whatever you need to do," Esme said kindly, "know that I'm behind you. Carlisle and I both. And let me know if you need anything."

"There will be some people coming this afternoon," I admitted to her. "A photographer and a reporter. And my publicist, Leah Clearwater."

"I'll let the staff know," Esme said, marking it down on a pad next to her newspaper. "I was just making some notes for the big garden party I host every June. Carlisle and I have been debating whether I should still hold it, but I think it would look odd if I didn't. It's a Platt tradition."

I remembered the garden party; I'd gone to them for years, and last year, I had met Edward at it. That was when our affair had begun.

"What does Edward think?" I asked. I was pretty sure he didn't have a preference, and that Esme hadn't consulted him, but I was curious if they'd spoken, and I thought asking her more directly might be rude.

Esme sighed, and I knew then that they hadn't spoken since he'd returned. "He's avoiding me," Esme confided softly, leaning over the table conspiratorially. "But I have a feeling that he wouldn't approve. He never approves of anything I do."

"Just ask Bella to suggest it to him," I said, hating the way my voice slid into a snider register when I said her name. "That'll convert him real quick."

Esme didn't say anything at first, just looked at me with those sad, beautiful green eyes. "Oh dear," she finally sighed, "I thought you might be taking that badly."

"I'm trying not to," I insisted, "but it's hard."

"Taking what badly?"

I looked up, and saw my worst nightmare, who I'd last seen sleeping in Edward's arms, standing hesitantly in the doorway. She must have known we were talking about her, because her face was a mixture of confusion and hurt and a trace of rapidly-dawning comprehension.

"Oh, good morning, dear," Esme said swiftly, rising to her feet and leading Bella into the room with a much sunnier smile than she'd given me. Esme was nothing if not a consummate hostess, and she covered our social gaffe by plying her son's new woman with coffee and orange juice and bagels with homemade strawberry jam.

I didn't answer Bella's question because I didn't think I could without confessing everything—how much I envied her, how much I loathed that I'd failed, how much I didn't want to sit by and watch her with Edward, even if I was perfectly happy with Emmett.

Really, how much I hated myself.

But Bella proved that she wasn't as stupid as I wanted to think she was, and even though her plate was full of a steaming pile of freshly-scrambled eggs and she held a toasted bagel in one hand, she didn't let it go.

"Rose," she said, her voice deceptively mild, "what did you mean by what you said earlier?"

"I don't know what you mean." I wanted to go toe-to-toe with her, with this woman who had so easily managed to snatch everything I'd always wanted, but unsurprisingly, I couldn't do it. Patience, I repeated Gianna's words to myself, it isn't going to come overnight—but it still hurt and it still stung that I couldn't face Bella and tell her the truth.

"Bullshit."

Esme's eyebrows raised in surprise, but she stayed out of it, merely reading her paper as if she wasn't even listening to what Bella and I were saying. Or what Bella was saying and what I _wasn't_ saying.

"I should have thought," Bella continued, "that watching Edward and I would be hard for you. But I thought you were with Emmett now. That you wanted to be with Emmett now. I'm sorry." I couldn't deny that she sounded genuinely apologetic that she'd made things uncomfortable for me, but I didn't like how she seemed to be laboring under a completely delusional idea that I would _ever _have picked Edward over Emmett.

I didn't want to admit it, but her words were what pushed me to find the backbone that Gianna kept telling me was buried somewhere underneath all the insecurities and the doubt.

"I love him," I said, reaching for an English muffin as if I hadn't just dropped a bomb at the breakfast table.

"Edward?" Bella asked in disbelief, her bagel paused inches from her mouth. "You love Edward?"

The abject fear in her eyes at my declaration had me laughing and suddenly feeling like we were even. Plus, it confirmed that as terrified I was of her, she was just as scared of me. And as ridiculous as it was, that couldn't help but feel good.

"No," I corrected, unable to stop the smugness in my voice, "I'm in love with _Emmett_. My hangups with Edward don't have anything to do with love. My pride's a little pissed off that you managed to do something so easily that I tried for _months _to do."

Bella looked even more surprised than before—more flabbergasted than shocked. As if she couldn't believe what I'd just said. She set the bagel down slowly and deliberately and looked at me right in the eye. "Easy?" she said in disbelief. "_Easy_? Do you have any idea what we went through when we were locked up?" I opened my mouth to take it back—that I hadn't even _thought _of what Edward and Bella had endured at the mercy of the Red Hands, because I hadn't wanted to—but she cut me off before I could say anything. "You don't. I know you don't. If I was you, I wouldn't either. You'd have to be there, to be in the darkness 24/7, to be waiting, terror building hour by hour in the blackness, in the silence, for the insane fucked up psychos to show up and hurt you, or even worse, to kill you." Bella's voice was still calm, but there was a steel edge to it that made me recoil at what I'd said. At how fucking petty I had been. "And the only person who is there, the only person you can talk to, who can maybe take away the fear for even a few moments, is a heartless, mean, nasty, _cruel _jackass who only wants to fuck you. So no, it wasn't exactly easy." Her point made, she picked up her bagel and took a casual bite, as if she hadn't just blown all my careless preconceived notions to pieces.

I glanced up at Esme, to see her reaction, and the paper white of her complexion told me that she'd heard and absorbed every single word. As I had. Bella, a writer, definitely had a way with words. I could practically taste the terror she and Edward must have felt, cooped up like that together for days—for weeks. And I'd resented her for getting through to Edward, but maybe it hadn't really been her at all. Maybe it had just been the unique combination of the situation and Bella's personality and the explosive alchemy of the two had wrought the night-and-day change that we all saw in Edward now.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, and for the first time since Bella had entered the breakfast room, I meant it. I hoped she could tell, because suddenly it was unacceptable that she thought I hated her or resented that she and Edward were trying to forge some sort of relationship.

"I know," Bella sighed. "You didn't mean it that way. I just . . .I wanted you to know. It would be easy to blame yourself, and I could see why you would. I just didn't want you to."

"I needed that," I admitted wryly. "I'm grateful, but my therapist will be the one really thanking you."

"Don't worry about it," Bella dismissed, waving her bagel with a smile in my direction, widening it to include Emmett, as he entered the room. He dropped a kiss on my cheek as he sat down next to me, and I wanted to grab and hold him close, take him away from everything that seemed so determined to tear us apart. But he looked so . . .light this morning, his burdens easing away each day that nothing wrong happened, that I couldn't bear to break the news, but in the end, Bella broke it for me.

"Now, tell me what you were talking to Edward about this morning. I heard something about photographs," she asked as Emmett spooned bacon and eggs onto his plate.

I saw his hand still on his fork and I knew Emmett was thinking the worst. If he'd wondered why he'd woken up and found me gone, he didn't have to wonder anymore. He knew. I'd gone straight to Edward—it wasn't like that, but he didn't understand. Maybe I was crazy for even considering this thing that Leah had suggested, but it seemed like the best option available to us. The one thing that I could do to fix both situations that were haunting us. I cleared my throat and gripped my coffee cup with white-knuckled hands. "The press has gotten their hands on some pictures that were taken while we were at the bar the other night. They're circulating on all the blogs."

Bella's brow furrowed, and I could see the confusion in her eyes. She didn't understand—but just the way that I couldn't comprehend what it had been like in that little room with Edward, she didn't get it because she'd never been in the position before. She'd never had millions of people gossiping and passing judgment for sheer entertainment value.

"There are pictures of me on blogs? Pictures of me with you?" Emmett's voice broke in, and I knew the place he'd gone and I supposed I shouldn't be all that surprised. He was so worried about my safety because of his proximity to me. Announcing his whereabouts wouldn't be an ideal situation in his eyes.

I wanted to say no, but I couldn't exactly lie. So I just nodded, not trusting my voice. Of course, I was going to have to find the courage to propose to him sometime before Leah showed up with the reporter and photographers and stylists, but that was then, and this was now.

"Rosie, this is not good," he said in a low, clearly upset voice.

"I know." I tried to sound as reassuring as I could, but it fell flat more because I was too nervous about what I was going to have to do. It was looking more and more like this was going to be our 'magic moment.' "My publicist, Leah, thinks it's better that we go on the offensive," I explained. "Instead of waiting for the news cycle to control us, to judge us, we're going to tell our side of the story first. Not," I continued, before Emmett could interrupt and insist that we weren't telling anything of the kind, "the way you think. Not about Edward and Bella and the Red Hands. But about me and you. That we're in love. That we're getting married."

Silence fell over the table, and Emmett looked stunned, as if I'd hit him in the face. Which I had. Metaphorically.

"Rosalie, congratulations," Esme broke in, that saccharine, fake smile on her face. The smile I knew she fell back in difficult social situations. I supposed this counted as one of those.

"Thanks," I said, sounding a lot less enthusiastic about the prospect than I think she was anticipating.

"This is exciting news. I didn't realize that you two were so serious about each other," Esme continued, and I wanted to tell her to stop talking before she dug us further into the hole, but of course, she was Esme Platt, and she kept going, a determinedly bright smile on her face as if she knew exactly what she was doing. Which she probably did.

"We're not," Emmett said flatly, his eyes never leaving my face. "Well, I am about her," he added, sounding suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, she's Rosalie Hale. I've been in love with her almost from the moment I met her. But I didn't know she was that serious about me."

I took a deep breath, hating the accusatory note in Emmett's voice, and hoping that I could extricate us out of this mess without making him hate me. "Of course, I'm serious about you," I said, "but this isn't exactly . . ._real_."

Emmett's eyes grew impossibly darker, almost a midnight blue, and I got the feeling that he was beginning to understand what I meant. "Not real," he stated.

"Well, it's real in that I care about you, and you care about me," I explained, "but the engagement is perhaps. . .a bit hasty. But there are a few good reasons to tell people we're getting married. First, it protects you. You fly under the radar now, but if you become Rosalie Hale's fiancé, suddenly you're big news. A disappearance, any retribution against you is examined under the media microscope. And second," I added, "it helps me because it'll make people think that I'm not a slut with a short attention span. They'll know I'm serious about you, that you're not just some fling."

Emmett didn't say anything, but Bella spoke up for the first time since I'd brought up the engagement. "I understand," she said, her look in her eyes sympathetic and supportive, "people are talking about you. I'm sure they're saying terrible things. But they can't know what you've been through or what Emmett means to you. It's too complicated to tell them, but you can shut them up with a simple statement that they'd understand. An engagement."

"Yes." I smiled gratefully at Bella for explaining it so well—so much better than I could. But Emmett still looked angry and I didn't understand. Didn't he _get _that this what it took to live in this world? What it took to live with me? If you were a celebrity, your life wasn't really your own; you had to fight for every inch of freedom.

"Rosalie," Emmett sighed, finally speaking, and he gently pried my fingers off the coffee cup, setting it down, and holding my small hands in his much bigger ones, "you know I love you. You know I want to be with you today, tomorrow, and in ten years. But this is moving really fast."

"I know," I said in a small voice, hating the way that his eyes seemed to see right through to my soul, to all those parts of me that didn't deserve him. "But we need this."

I held my breath as he paused, but I finally saw resignation in his expression. "We do," he admitted. "I hate to say it but your reasons make a lot of sense. I don't like it but I'll do it."

Relief flood me and I flung my arms around him, and buried my face deep in the crook between his shoulder and neck. We hadn't been dating all that long, but I still felt so much comfort and reassurance with just his touch. I felt so much better, in fact, that I didn't realize at first what he'd said, and I was further distracted by my phone ringing. It was Leah, informing me that she and the team she'd put together would be in Hyannis Port in an hour. I was to take a shower and be ready for the stylist when they arrived. Leah asked simply if I'd discussed the plan with Emmett and I'd said that everything was ready to go.

I finished breakfast, brushing a kiss over my brand new fiancé's lips as I exited the room, and it wasn't until I was in the shower, the hot spray erasing away the stress and anxiety that I remembered what he'd said when he'd agreed to marry me—or at least to _say _he was marrying me.

_I don't like it . . ._

In the wake of the jolt of the sheer joy I'd experienced when he'd agreed, all I'd felt was unadulterated happiness that we'd be facing our issues together, as a committed couple. But now all I could think of were his words.

_. . . but I'll do it._

And the beginnings of a knot formed in the base of my stomach.

* * *

The knot didn't go away when Leah arrived. Or when the stylist handed me the pretty floral sundress she'd brought along. Or when she'd handed Emmett his suit, and he'd looked as if he was headed to the gallows instead of a long life of wedded bliss. Or when the reporter had sat us down while the photographer set the stage in one of Esme's lovely rooms, and asked us about how in love we were.

His answers were all perfect, but there was something lacking . . .it was so subtle that I almost couldn't put my finger on it, but the longer the interview went on—normal, silly questions about our favorite date nights (dinner in and a movie on the couch), our favorite restaurant (Barefoot Contessa's takeout service), and how we'd grown closer together (I described getting sick and tired of Edward, and of Emmett being the guy I could talk to)—the more I felt like Emmett wasn't happy about it all.

There was an important distinction between being happy about our future together and being happy about being forced to share it (and to an extent, manufacture it for an audience). While I was definitely not pleased about the latter, I was thrilled about the former. Emmett, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly happy about either.

The photographer finally announced he was ready for the pictures and Leah announced that we'd answer one more question.

"I'm sure our readers would love to know how you proposed to Rosalie." She leaned towards us, an almost predatory hungriness in her gaze. She was getting the scoop of the century and it had made her greedy.

I'd fielded most of the questions before now, which was definitely something that the reporter would have noticed—and I had no doubt that this fact was why she'd directed this one exclusively at him. She was smart and savvy, and she wouldn't miss the hesitation on his face now. Flashes of an article that was anything but a confirmation of how in love Emmett was with me began to dance in front of my eyes and the knot in my stomach grew.

"I don't know about that," Emmett said, and I saw with horror that the smile on his face didn't come close to reaching his eyes, and the reporter's expression grew downright avaricious. She sensed a big scoop—possibility bigger than the one she'd come out here for—and she was going to go in for the kill strike.

"Don't know about what?" she asked slyly. "The engagement? Surely not?"

"No. I'm sure about that," Emmett said, though it was clear from his voice that this wasn't true at all. "I'm not sure if I want to share such a private moment." He glanced over at me, and I shot a desperate look at Leah, who staring on in horror at the trainwreck happening right in front of her.

"Interview's over," Leah briskly inserted, walking over and not-so-subtly standing between Emmett and I and the reporter. "Let's take a quick break before pictures. Rose, Emmett, can I talk to you for a moment?"

The reporter flashed us one more insincere smile and disappeared from the room. She was only gone for a moment before Leah turned on us, fangs bared. "Rose, Emmett," she hissed, "I thought you said you were on board with this."

"We are," I said firmly, and I gave Emmett a little shove when he didn't answer. "Right? _We _are."

"Rose," he sighed, and I wanted to slap him.

"What?" I snapped. "What is your problem? You _agreed_ to do this!"

"I know. And it is a good idea. I never thought it wasn't."

"Then could you please explain why you're not exactly overflowing with enthusiasm over the idea of marrying me?"

"It's not even a real marriage," Leah intervened. "Just a quick little sham. A ring on a certain finger. That's all."

Emmett's expression grew harder and I wished that Leah would shut up and let me handle this.

"Is that what it is, Rose? A ring on a certain finger?"

I twisted the ring in question—a ring that Leah had brought with her and slid on my finger herself. Emmett hadn't even been in the room. I'd told myself at that moment that it didn't matter. I didn't need the princess fairy tale that I'd built in my Disney-tinged fantasies over the years. Reality didn't allow for any of that, so I would just have to ignore the heartsick twinges I felt.

"You know what this is," I tried to explain patiently. "It's just a front for the public. We can do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want? What about what you want?" Emmett raised an eyebrow and I felt the knot expand exponentially, pushing on the sides of my stomach until it threatened to burst like a bubble.

"I want you," I said more than little desperately. "You know that."

There was something in Emmett's face now—a hesitation, a pulling back that I had seen once before, and the realization nearly finished me off. I swallowed convulsively, praying that I wouldn't cry and destroy the makeup that the stylist had worked so hard to perfect. The photographer was ready in the next room, ready to preserve for eternity the perfection of the American fairy tale. The Princess kissing the Frog. Jasmine saving Aladdin. Beauty marrying the Beast.

"Emmett," I said, desperation clearly evident now. "Tell me that you want the same things I want. Tell me we can go in the other room and let the photographer take our picture."

He just shrugged, and the dream that I'd constructed around him began to crumble, the same way that the one about Edward disintegrated every time I woke up and discovered that it wasn't true after all. I wanted to be stronger, I wanted to be the girl that faced down death and destruction and terror. I wanted to be Bella. But I wasn't her yet, and the possibility that this was all just a paper mache façade was too much to face, so I did the one thing that Gianna always told me _not _to do.

I ran.

* * *

_When you're dreaming with a broken heart,_

_the giving up is the hardest part._

_She takes you in with her crying eyes_

_then all at once, you have to say goodbye._

I stopped running by the swimming pool. I paused and listened, but I didn't hear any footsteps following me, so I sat down on one of the chaise lounges and finally let the tears that had been building all day rise to the surface.

As they dripped down my cheeks, I found I didn't even care that the flawless perfection that the makeup artist had created was destroyed. It felt good, in fact, that for once, my outward surface looked somewhat like how I felt inside.

"Rosalie." I looked up and saw Carlisle standing in front of me. I hadn't heard him approach and I hastily wiped my eyes, embarrassed that he'd seen me lose control. I wasn't a pretty crier, and I was sure my face was red and blotchy, but he smiled sadly at my gesture, as if he could care less what I looked like. Which sounded just like Carlisle.

"Can I sit down?" he asked, gesturing to the empty spot next to me.

I nodded bleakly, and he sat down. For a long moment, he didn't say anything and I just stared ahead, sure that he had come out here to convince me to return to the scene of the crime. But I didn't feel much like submitting myself for more emotional trauma—at least not today. I had had enough with Edward to last me a lifetime, and the worst part was that I'd naively believed that that part of my life was over, now that I was with Emmett.

"You don't understand why he was upset, do you?" Carlisle finally asked.

"Of course I understand," I snapped. "He doesn't want to marry me. And I can't even blame him for that—I'm a fucking wreck."

He smiled kindly, and I wanted to cry some more. So I did. Screw looking like shit for the cameras. I had a pretty good feeling we wouldn't be taking any engagement pictures today.

"On the contrary," he said, picking up my hand and holding my ring up to the light. The diamond flashed and sparkled brilliantly in the late afternoon sun. Leah had, unsurprisingly, picked a beautiful ring. "Emmett's been in love with you for a long time. He wants to marry you. Desperately, in fact."

I stared at him in confusion. "I don't understand," I finally said. "He acted as if he didn't even want to be there. He wouldn't even _try_."

"Ah, and we get to the crux of the problem. He didn't want to try in front of the reporter—and I bet you if you had actually made it to the photographer, he wouldn't have wanted to try there either."

"But he said he would do it," I cried, not even caring that I sound like a whiny, selfish brat who hadn't gotten her own way. "Why would he say that if he didn't want to try?"

"He wanted it to be real, Rosalie. He wanted to be with you, and plan the perfect proposal, and get down on one knee and ask you to be his wife. He wanted to be able to slip this ring on your finger for real. Instead, all he's getting is a reporter from _People _magazine asking questions that you two have to make up the answers to and a photographer taking fake engagement photos. Can you see why he's upset? He knows it's a good idea—Emmett's a logical guy, most of the time—but he loves you and he wanted it to be real."

I wanted to believe him, but while his words had shrunk the knot, they hadn't dissolved it entirely. "He wanted it to be real. That's why he's upset?" I questioned. "How do you know this? Did you even talk to him?"

"I didn't have to," Carlisle said neutrally. "I know exactly how I'd feel if I was in his situation and I wasn't able to be real with Esme."

I'd long suspected the truth, but it still brought a watery smile to my face. "You love her."

He turned towards me, a matching, incandescent smile on his face, and I wondered how it was possible she didn't realize. "I do."

"You should tell her," I said softly. "A woman would want to know. I would want to know. I wish Emmett had told me."

"And he's going to," Carlisle said with another blinding smile, and I looked up to see Emmett walking across the patio towards us. I jerked up instinctively, and Carlisle shook his head as he held me fast. "Don't run, Rose. Running only makes things worse. I think he's come to apologize and tell you the truth, so you should let him. Just don't ruin it by letting him know I already told you. Look surprised."

"Alright," I agreed, and Carlisle stood and walked into the house. Emmett approached hesitantly, and I surprised myself by looking him straight in the eye.

"Rose," he began when he reached me, but I held up my hand.

"Don't," I said. "I can't believe you would agree to do something and then bail on me like that. Don't you think I've had enough heartache for one lifetime? You saw me with Edward, so you should be able to answer that question pretty accurately."

"I'm sorry," he said contritely, and I felt the rage of being let down still simmering in my blood. This must be what Gianna was always telling me about, the necessity of standing up for what you believed you deserved. And suddenly I was fairly sure—despite those dreams I kept having about Edward—that what I deserved was standing right in front of me.

"Why did you do it?" I asked.

He sighed. "It sounds so stupid," he admitted, "but god, I hated how fake it all was. I've loved you for so long, and the idea of all this—like nothing I'd imagined it would be—was suddenly more than I could stomach. I wanted it to be real."

I smiled at his words—so like Carlisle's. "Really?" I asked hopefully. "You do want to marry me?"

He laughed then, the big hearty Emmett laugh that I loved so much. "Weren't you listening to that reporter? I should be so lucky as to marry the Princess."

"But you're not marrying her—not really," I admitted. "You're marrying Rosie."

"Good. Because that's who I want. That's who I've always dreamed about." He reached for my hands, and wrapped his fingers around mine, until I wasn't sure where his began and mine left off.

"Aren't you afraid that your dream will be ruined? Because of all this?" That was a fear of mine—that he would wake up and realize that all the sacrifices it would take to be Rosalie Hale's husband weren't worth the benefits.

"You're my dream. So if you're there, it couldn't possibly be ruined."

I pulled him down to sit next to me and let my head fall into his shoulder. We sat there for a long moment before I asked, "Does this mean that we have to go back inside and deal with the photographer?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Emmett sighed, "but then we do need engagement pictures. So I suppose it's worth it."

"Alright, let's do this, then," I agreed, tugging him to his feet. As we walked to the patio door, I loosened my grip on his fingers. and handed him the ring that Leah had given me. "I'm still waiting for you to propose, after all."

Emmett beamed goofily at me. "Let's get inside then, because I'm not going to lie—I've been dreaming of making you my fiancée for a long time, Rosie Hale."

"Me too," I said softly, leaning in to kiss him and surprising myself by meaning exactly what I'd just said.

Maybe Emmett was right. Maybe I'd been looking at this wrong the entire time, and Emmett _was _my dream. Maybe I didn't need to be Edward's savior. Maybe I didn't even _want _to be Edward's savior. Maybe I only wanted to be Emmett's.

But more than all that, maybe I just wanted to be my own.

* * *

**AN: Phew.**

**Next chapter? We're back with Edward and Bella. Will he and Esme finally have a conversation about something other than breakfast foods? Will he and Bella manage to have a conversation about their relationship? Will Edward be able to say he _likes _Bella?**

**Stay tuned :)**

**A note about review replies: yes, I will still be doing them, but they won't go out until I have a good start on the chapter 30, so you might have to wait a week. But I am still doing them, and will still be sending a teaser out as well.**


	31. The Double Standard

**AN: OMG, I am so sorry this has taken so ridiculously long to post. Work was insane the last few weeks, and then this just got longer and longer and longer . . .but well, you get the point.**

**I also failed at review replies, but then I thought you might appreciate an 8,000 word chapter instead of a 200 word teaser :)**

**This chapter Bella starts working on her blog again, and part of this chapter includes her second post that she writes, which is based on Taylor Swift's song, "The Best Day." Playlist is updated with the song. I really recommend you listen to it, it's a lovely song and will help you "get" the post that Bella writes better.**

**Thanks to my pinch-hitter beta, Izzzyysprinkles, who rocks my world.**

* * *

**Chapter 30: The Double Standard**

**Bella**

When Rosalie's publicist and her entourage descended like a storm into Esme's house, I hid. It wasn't my proudest moment, but I still hadn't come to terms with the fact that my mother's fondest wish had finally happened—I was the lead story not only on the gossip blogs, but on _People _and _Us Weekly_. I should have known that becoming involved with someone as famous as Edward meant the inevitable publicity, but I still wasn't ready for it when it hit.

So I hid from the army of stylists and hairdressers and makeup artists and photographers—and from Renee, who I was sure was right in the thick of things, giving her own, unwanted, opinion of everything from the style of Rose's hair to the lighting in the room. Because God forbid, if there was photographer within a mile of her, Renee couldn't resist the opportunity to show off.

We hadn't really spoken yet, which was definitely on purpose, though Esme kept sending me these slightly reproachful looks, as if she could guilt me into talking to my mother. And if Renee, who had emotional blackmail running through her veins, couldn't guilt me into it, then I was completely immune.

Edward had gone to the studio again, and today was the first day I hadn't accompanied him. Truthfully, as much as I liked sitting in the producer's booth, watching him through the glass partition, it had begun to feel as if I was intruding. Besides, Victoria was driving me to distraction, and I hadn't been able to get much done on any of my new blog entries when she kept asking me pestering questions about my relationship with Edward.

I'd told her that we were professional acquaintances, but her curiosity hadn't seemed satisfied by this answer—she wouldn't even have to be that much smarter than I thought she was to see right through this flimsy explanation. I knew that despite Edward's general terror of a "relationship," we didn't look like just friends.

He might have missed it (and since this was Edward, it was quite likely), but we'd grown into a couple. We'd been on dates—not necessarily traditional dates, but dates nonetheless. We'd even had sex in the backseat of a car. Technically it was a limo, but I'd decided that the spirit of the rule was what counted.

It was hard not to get my hopes regarding Edward up when he'd been so sweet. There had only been a handful of hiccups over the last few days that had even come close to setting us back, though I had a feeling that this was the calm before the storm.

And once the pictures hit the internet, I _knew _it was the calm before the storm.

I hadn't been able to resist seeing myself plastered all over the blogs, so I'd logged into the computer that Esme had graciously offered to lend me and browsed through the sites. I discovered a few things during my intrepid exploration:

Rosalie and her publicity team weren't exaggerating the damage to her public persona. There were some truly nasty things being said about her in conjunction with Edward and Emmett. My heart ached for her, but I knew that things could only improve from here. Breaking ties with Edward had been the healthiest thing she'd done in years.

Though Rose seemed to be the main target for the venomous gossip, I wasn't exactly immune from their poison. They'd called me everything from a starfucker to a groupie to a opportunistic, heartless whore. A few had even unearthed my identity and I felt sick as I flipped through some particularly cruel comparisons to Renee in her heyday. I'd known that she'd plowed through men the same way that farmers did a field, but I hadn't wanted to see the nasty evidence laid bare in front of me.

The consensus seemed to be that I was the new Rosalie Hale—though more than a few blogs had apparently decided that I was an upgrade. One had even proclaimed me a "classier, more tasteful" version of Rose. I hoped as I clicked to the next link that Rose didn't end up reading that particular article. She resented me enough as it was.

Edward, of course, was lauded as a combination of Hercules and Don fucking Juan. I'd always been aware of the double standard between men and women, but I was disgusted by the extent of the leniency shown to him while Rose and I were judged without mercy. Even Emmett was applauded universally for snatching an A-list celebrity like Rose.

Finally, I shut the browser down and opening a blank word document and pulled out the legal pad I'd been using to jot down ideas for future blog entries. I wished that I could lay the inspiration for the re-envisioning of my blog at my own door, but I couldn't credit anyone but Edward. His music had always had a strangely influential effect on me, but this felt different-as if I was a piece of molding clay and he'd been permanently imprinted into me, until I couldn't deny the enormous impact that he'd made on me and on my writing.

The genesis for my new blog had actually been our first real conversation—when, during one of those horrible days with the Red Hands, he had asked me which songs I would use as a soundtrack for this particular scene of my life. The concept hadn't struck me initially, but after we'd escaped to safety, it hung with me, haunting my thoughts during the day, and my dreams at night. Then when Edward had asked me to go with him to the studio, claiming I needed to find my connection to the music, I'd suddenly understood what it was that I needed to do.

For the entirety of my blog's existence, I'd maintained a fanatically rigid distance from the material I wrote about. I'd fooled myself into thinking that if I could keep my feelings and emotions and deepest, darkest desires locked away, hidden behind a wall of my objective indifference, then nobody could see them.

Ultimately, it had worked, but it had also been as boring as fuck.

What I needed to do was tear the wall down brick by brick until I was able to bear my soul and reveal exactly what music played there. It wasn't going to be easy—there was, after all, a reason I'd kept it all locked away, but I knew that not only would _I _be better for it, the blog would be, too.

The first post I'd written had poured out of me in a steady stream of painful recollection and damp sweaty hands. It was nearly word for word a transcript of the conversation that Edward and I had had about Nine Inch Nails, and how their music had affected my life. I wrote about my father's death and about the hopelessness of ever seeing the light again.

It hurt like hell, as if I was literally jabbing my pen into my flesh and letting the horror and the blood spill out of me like ink, but afterwards I'd felt surprisingly better. Better enough to seduce Edward in the limo, even.

The second entry I had decided to tackle was Bat for Lashes' song, "Daniel." I'd felt an unusually strong personal association with the song almost from the beginning, but it now doubled as an emotional road map of how I'd come to feel about Edward. Of course, I couldn't say who the post was about, but the name wasn't what was important; instead I'd decided to focus on the little details that comprised the music and the lyrics and my nearly visceral reaction to them.

But before I could start the entry, there was a knock on the door, and I called out, "Come in," only to see Esme's face appear in the doorway.

"Oh, you don't need to knock," I mumbled, blushing. "This is your office, Esme. I'm just borrowing it."

"It's alright, dear," Esme said, shutting the door behind her with a click. "Edward told Carlisle how important it was that you had access to a computer to work on your blog. I don't mind sharing mine, especially considering that I almost never use it."

I didn't miss the bitter edge Esme's voice took when she mentioned that it had been Carlisle that Edward had issued the request to—even though it was Esme's house and Esme's office that I would be using. I knew Edward still hadn't spoken to her, but I didn't know that things were this bad between them. I didn't know that he couldn't even ask for a simple favor.

"I don't mean to bother you," Esme continued, "but what you said to Rosalie at breakfast . . .I confess, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

"I'm sorry if you thought I was rude to her," I said in a rush, afraid that she was upset by what I'd told Rosalie.

"No, no. She needed to hear that." Esme paused, and looked up at me with beseeching eyes. "_I_ needed to hear that."

"He still hasn't talked to you," I stated wryly. "I'm sorry. I thought he would have by now . . ."

"I'm not surprised," Esme said matter-of-factly, taking the seat across the desk from me. "He hates me. He's hated me for years."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me before I could. "No, he does. And don't tell me that you feel differently about Renee. I know you do. You haven't exchanged one civil word with her since you returned."

"My history with Renee is . . .complicated," I confessed, trying to find a word that could possibly describe the previous fifteen years of deliberate misunderstandings, misery and guilt.

"As is mine with Edward," Esme sighed. "I haven't been the mother he needed, just the way that Renee hasn't been the mother you needed. Did you know that when Carlisle, Emmett and Marcus went up to Canada to rescue you, they found the house empty? For an hour or two, Renee and I believed the worst had befallen you two. It was a time I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Like you, I've had my own difficulties with Renee in the past, but there's no denying it-she was truly devastated by the possibility that you could be hurt or even killed."

I would have denied it if I could, but Esme's word was law. If she said that Renee had been upset by the idea, then she had been, yet before this moment, I never would have thought so. When Charlie had been killed, Renee had been forced to return to Manchester and collect the physical representation of the past she'd been trying to escape since she'd tired of it. I'd always felt like an obligation, a burden, an annoyance that Renee had never wanted and couldn't understand.

"I'm sure it was a difficult time," I phrased carefully, my voice neutral. "I'm sorry that you had to experience that."

"No, you're not," Esme contradicted with a wry smile. "You think we—at least Renee—deserved it. And you're probably right. We did. But you, and Edward too, for that matter, need to decide when you're going to stop punishing us for all our failings as mothers."

I wanted to tell her that there was no end to the punishment; that there was no amount of retribution that either I or Edward could inflict that would make up for the pain that our mothers had caused us, but with Esme looking at me with eyes rimmed in bruised shadows, I found that I couldn't destroy her hope completely. Maybe Edward would eventually be able to forgive and forget.

I just wasn't sure that I ever could—and not just for myself, but for Charlie. She'd treated him like a disease-like a tumor she couldn't wait to rid herself of.

"Bella," Esme said again, the sad edge of her voice telling me that she understood every bit of my hesitation, "I know how you feel. I know how Edward feels. I just wish that maybe he would . . ._try_. That's all I ask. Rosalie was right when she said that it might go over better if it comes from you. We all . . .well. . .we all see the change in him since he's met you."

I was surprised that a woman as intelligent and intuitive as Esme could honestly believe that Edward's "changes" were due to me.

"It isn't me," I said flatly. "Edward changing—if he's really changed and this isn't some weird version of PTSD—doesn't have anything to do with me." I wanted to believe that she was right, but I knew better. He was still the same guy, underneath it all, just a trifle less caustic and not quite as self-destructive.

"I don't understand," Esme said, sounding flustered. "He's different."

"Edward had a life changing experience. He got the answers that he's been searching for his whole life. To him, he's been defined almost entirely by who his father was, and what little he knew about him. He found out a lot of things that changed the perceptions he'd built up in his mind."

"Tell me. Please, tell me more about what happened. Edward won't," Esme begged, abandoning any pretense of pride. I believed, in a way that I'd never believed about Renee, that Esme did love her son, and for the first time, I felt sorry for her.

"I can't," I said softly, wanting to tell her, but knowing that Edward would never forgive me for breaking his confidence—especially to Esme. "I'm sorry, but it's not my story to tell."

"I know," Esme sighed, rising to her feet and walking to the door. "Bella, I do understand. And not only about Edward and his secrets, but about Renee. A mother is supposed to be the one person who understands and loves her child above all else—what children don't understand, and I don't think they necessarily should, is that sometimes that love takes different forms. I made terrible decisions because I loved my child too much." She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Promise me you'll try to talk to Renee. She misses you and it hurts her that you're under the same roof as her, yet you avoid her. And _your _story is yours to tell. You should share it with her."

I considered telling Esme that what I shared or didn't share with Renee was none of her business—also that she herself had admitted that Renee was a difficult person to talk to—but in the end, I couldn't. So I just nodded, surprising even myself that I'd agreed to try.

But just before Esme turned to leave, I said, "You should corner Edward. He really wants to talk, he's just scared." She turned back, a look of shock on her face, and I was sure she could see a similar one on mine. I couldn't believe I'd just said that, but she only gave me a tiny smile and closed the door behind her without saying a word.

After Esme had left, I looked back down at the blank computer screen, thoughts of the conversation I'd just had echoing through my mind.

And instead of writing about "Daniel," like I'd intended to, I started a completely different entry.

* * *

**Entry #2: The Best Day**

I hate Taylor Swift.

Not because she's a bright-eyed nineteen-years-old, is oozing bright, sparkly talent from her teeny tiny pores, or is ridiculously successful at what she loves to do. I don't even hate her for her twee, country-pop songs. In fact, I rather like a few of them.

I hate Taylor Swift because of one song: "The Best Day."

"The Best Day" reminds me with every sickeningly, saccharine sweet word, every lovingly-strummed chord that girls like Taylor have everything—including an adoring family that she can sing about in a completely non-ironic way.

Taylor opens up the song talking about a pumpkin patch she and her mother visited when she was five years old. When I was five, I was living with my dad year-round in Manchester. He was a full-time detective at Scotland Yard and there wasn't any time for him to take me on excursions. He didn't like it, but his job was his life, and I didn't have a mother at home to take care of me. Where was she?

My mother was off screwing a succession of high-end fashion photographers to further her modeling career-not driving me to a pumpkin patch so that I could have a lovely, autumnal memory a la Taylor Swift.

Taylor then segues into a description of when she was twelve and her mother distracted her for an afternoon of window shopping after she'd become a target for some mean girls at school.

I was 12 when my father was killed when he interrupted a robbery. Renee forcibly removed me from Manchester and everything I knew, and plopped me down in her big empty house in Beverly Hills. By this time, she'd married my stepfather, Dr. Phil, a rather famous plastic surgeon, and she didn't have any time to be a mother. If I had a bad day at school—if I was made fun of because of my thick, north England accent, then too fucking bad. She didn't have the time or the inclination to wipe away the tears. She definitely didn't have time to take me window shopping to help me forget that everyone at my new school hated me.

Taylor sings, _"Daddy's smart and you're the prettiest lady in the whole wide world."_ My daddy _was _smart—until he stepped in front of a bullet. Renee is still one of the prettiest ladies in the world wide world, but it doesn't make her a mother. It just makes her pretty.

The first time I heard this song, I envied Taylor for her memories, for her happy childhood, for her complete and supportive family.

But most of all, I envied her for being able to write the following and mean it:

_I knew you were on my side, even when I was wrong._

_And I love you for giving me your eyes, for staying back and watching me shine._

From the moment she collected me from Manchester, Renee didn't care what I wanted. She only wanted a daughter she could remake in her own image. And guess what? I'm not beautiful like her—certainly not beautiful enough to be a model—but that didn't stop her from trying, even when it was the very last thing that I wanted to be.

She wasn't supportive when I told her I wanted to be a writer. She derided me when I choose to go to college, instead of staying in Beverly Hills and New York and attending a frantic round of parties and galas and shopping.

Renee was never on my side, even when I was right, and _especially_ not when I was wrong.

She didn't give me her eyes, and she's never let me forget it. She didn't stay back and she never let me shine—at least never the way I wanted to.

The concept of "the best day" makes me hate Miss Swift because I've never, not one single damn time, had a "best day" with my mother. Sometimes she'll fly to Boston, and those visits are generally comprised of lunches of inedible salads and conversations full of reprimands and reproaches and demands that I do something else with my life.

So maybe I don't really hate Taylor Swift; maybe I simply envy her with a bone-deep, exhausted resentment. Someone asked me today if I could ever forgive Renee for the pain she's inflicted on me—if I could ever forget long enough to stop punishing her for her behavior.

I can't. Not when girls like Taylor are out there, detailing every single ounce of motherly love that I never received.

* * *

**Edward**

I was honestly fucking relieved that I had the airtight excuse of going to the studio to avoid the legion of stylists and hairdressers that Clearwater had no doubt dragged in to fix Rose. I didn't want anything to do with the article, or with this stupid pseudo-engagement that Rose had decided could save her reputation.

I knew Emmett would go along with it, because he loved her, and that apparently meant you'd do whatever pussy thing that your woman wanted you to—but I also knew he'd fucking hate it. If I was a good friend I would have stayed back to help him through the ordeal of the interview and the stupid fake engagement photos, but we all knew what kind of a friend I was. So instead, I'd escaped.

I'd seen Bella's hesitation when I'd asked her to go with me to the studio again, and though I couldn't help but be a little sore that she didn't want to be with me as much I wanted to be with her, I knew her blog was important to her. I'd even made sure that she could use Esme's computer while I was out, though I hadn't gone as far as speaking to Esme to do it. The one benefit of Carlisle being involved with my mother was that I no longer had to even talk to her—he was able, though not exactly willing, to relay messages.

Carlisle had come with me to the studio this time, and though he ostensibly said it was because he wanted to hear the new music me and the boys—_Athair, _I reminded myself, we were _Athair _now—were working on, I knew he'd heard enough worrisome noise about Victoria that he wanted to check her out for himself.

When I slid back in the limo after another productive day, he was waiting for me, his head tipped back on the leather seat, his eyes closed.

"Did you get it?" I asked brusquely, toying with my cell phone, wishing like a fucking moron that Bella would text me and tell me how her day had been. I'd missed her reassuring presence today, though it had been freeing to not worry about her and Victoria.

"I got it," Carlisle rolled his eyes. "You really believe in going all out, don't you?"

"I don't know what you mean." I played dumb and stared out the window as we drove out of the city.

"You know exactly what I fucking mean," Carlisle said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice now. "Why the fuck are you pretending that she doesn't mean more than all the other girls put together?"

"You don't see me going out and fucking anyone else, do you?" I demanded, still refusing to look at him. It was stupid and silly, but I was afraid that if I did, he'd see straight to my core, right to the place that was irrevocably changed, not only by the Red Hands, but by Bella herself. It was too sensitive and new and fresh and I was afraid if anyone saw it, it wouldn't be the same anymore.

"It's more than that," Carlisle said so reasonably that I wanted to smash his face in. I hated him for bringing this up and even more, I hated that he was right. "She means something to you."

"She's smart," I tried explaining, but it was so much more than that. Bella was intelligent and strong, sexy and sweet. I tried to pretend that I didn't, but I liked her so god damned much it was terrifying.

And then it hit me. I could finally admit it. I _liked _her.

I glanced down to make sure that I wasn't growing tits. Nope. Not yet, anyway. It was still early. I'd have to keep a close eye on my chest to make sure they didn't start sprouting.

"That she is," Carlisle agreed. "I have to tell you, Esme's thrilled that you've finally met a girl that you don't seem to want to destroy."

"I didn't destroy Rose," I snapped. "She fucking destroyed herself."

"I suppose that's true, if you believe the argument that you were a human cyclone and she never tried to run away."

"Who cares what anyone believes," I said, annoyed that we were talking about Rosalie. As much as I tried to bury it, I couldn't deny that a vague ribbon of guilt streaked through me every time I saw her or talked to her or she told Bella that she needed to save herself before I destroyed her too.

"You should apologize to her. If you're sorry."

"That sounds like one of your loaded statements," I said. "Like you want me to argue and say, 'oh yes, Great Carlisle, you're so right. I feel like fucking shit for having crapped on Rose for so long.'"

"Do you?"

"You sound like a fucking shrink. Stop it or I'll have the driver throw you out."

"If I go, so does Bella's present. And I know you care about it—and her—because you asked me for it specifically. You almost never ask me for anything. Except for booze and women, though that hasn't happened in awhile."

"Maybe I should make you procure me a bottle of Jack and a hot blonde tonight. You're probably getting out of practice."

"You have a hot brunette in your bed. Why would you need a blonde?" I turned my head, and caught the ghost of a smile on Carlisle's face.

"Good point," I muttered. "And she'd chop my balls off I brought a blonde to bed."

"Which we all admire her for," Carlisle said.

"You seem to like Bella an awful lot," I said, testing him. "Do you think I should tell Esme about your sudden partiality for brunettes?"

Carlisle laughed then and I couldn't help but smile too. "And you think _Bella's_ a ball-buster. I wouldn't like to imagine what Esme would do to me."

"Esme? She'd kill you," I predicted sarcastically.

"You should talk to her, you know."

"Bella?" I asked in a bored voice.

"No. Your mother."

"Not interested," I said coldly, turning back to the window, sick of Carlisle's constant harping. I didn't feel the least bit prepared to talk to Esme. I had no idea what to say to her, yet I couldn't keep my mind from thinking of the dozens of questions that I was secretly dying to ask her.

Questions about the Red Hands, about Niall, about Jane. About my father and his death.

"Alright," Carlisle said casually, though I knew better than to actually believe it was okay I didn't talk to Esme.

"You aren't fooling me. I know you're desperate to force me to talk to her. What did she do?" I asked with a sneer. "Kick you out of her bed until you brought me to her throne, ready to be sacrificed on her altar?"

"No," Carlisle said in a soft voice. "I just know she loves you and this attitude of yours is hurting her. Imagine if Bella was hurting; wouldn't you want to stop whatever it was that was causing it?"

"It's not the same," I insisted without really answering the question. I knew the answer, but Carlisle didn't have to. I'd already experienced what it felt like, and I knew I'd do just about anything to keep Bella safe.

"Right," he answered, sounding completely unconvinced.

"I have a headache," I snapped. "I need quiet."

"Fine," Carlisle murmured, turning to his own window.

We were silent the rest of the way home. Finally, the limo pulled into Esme's drive, and I had my door open almost before it came to a stop.

"Wait," Carlisle said, climbing out of the car, and walking around to where I paused on the front steps. "You forgot this." He handed me what I'd asked him to pick up for Bella.

"Oh. Right," I said self-consciously, weirdly uncomfortable about this gift, when I'd been totally fine with the booze and the groupies he'd always brought me in the past.

"It was a thoughtful choice," Carlisle began to say, but I didn't want to hear it. If he spouted off any more horse shit about how Bella had neutered me, I wasn't going to be able to give it to her at all.

"Thanks," I snapped, climbing the rest of the steps to the house. I entered the quiet, dark house, and was glad to see that it appeared that Clearwater's brigade had vacated the premises before I returned home.

I walked through the shadowed foyer and into the back the house, reaching the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor.

"Edward," Esme said in a low, steady voice behind me. I turned and saw her sitting in a chair in the hallway, her legs curled up beneath her. Her hair was mussed and her makeup smudged, and it looked as if she'd been waiting for awhile.

A sense of apprehension flooded me. She'd been waiting for _me_. I didn't feel ready for this; instead I felt cowardly and terrified, like a little boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and was now awaiting some terrible form of punishment.

"I have to go . . ." I started to say, but she cut me off.

"No," she said steadily, looking at me straight in the eye, "you don't. You're going to talk to me. We're going to talk to each other."

"I don't have anything to say to you," I said defensively, but just like Bella, Esme looked straight through me and saw the reality—which was that I had too much to say. Too much to ask. Too much swirling around inside me. I wanted to turn back time to when I'd felt dead and empty and hollow, because it had been so much easier existing that way.

"Let me be the judge of that," Esme begged, and I wavered, physically and emotionally, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, torn between the past and the future.

I could only take so much indecision before I broke. "Fine," I grumbled, picking up Bella's gift, walking past Esme towards the kitchen. "I could use something to eat anyway."

I knew she was following me by the footsteps on the hardwood floor, but she didn't say anything, which surprised me. Hadn't she just ambushed me so she could talk my fucking ear off?

"I believe there's some leftover pasta," she finally said quietly, as I yanked the refrigerator door open.

I pulled the plastic container out and turned to grab a bowl only to have Esme hold one out wordlessly. "You wouldn't have known where to find it," she murmured.

"True," I admitted. "But it's not like you spend all that much time in the kitchen either."

She shrugged as I stuck the bowl in the microwave and punched a few numbers. "I made a lucky guess."

As the pasta rotated in the microwave, silence fell between us, and I wondered again why Esme had waited up for me if she wasn't going to actually talk to me.

"I spoke to Bella today," Esme said.

Of all the things I'd expected Esme to bring up, this hadn't even been on my radar, though it made sense upon further reflection. After all, Carlisle had brought Bella up too, as if she was the only reason I'd changed.

"She's a lovely girl," Esme continued, as I took the hot bowl of pasta from the microwave. "I can see why you like her." Normally, I would have argued with this, but since I'd finally been able to admit to myself that I liked her, I kept eating.

"Edward," Esme sighed, "are you even going to look at me? Say one word to me?"

Her quiet plea was apparently just enough to snap my determination never to let her know just how much I'd been affected by the kidnapping. I slammed my fork onto the marble counter and looked up at her, my lips curled in a sneer. "Yes," I snapped at her, "I _am_, actually. Why the fuck didn't you tell me about them? About Niall? About Jane? Why did you let me think he died a hero?"

Esme paled, but once the lid was off, I couldn't stop the words that spilled from me. "If you had just been fucking honest, everything would have been different. None of this would have ever happened." I slammed my fist on the counter, punctuating the gut-wrenching point that our inability to communicate as mother and son had led to this whole clusterfuck in the first place.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, the knuckles white with the force she was using to hold herself up—or hold herself together, I wasn't sure which.

"It's a little late for sorry," I snarled.

"Maybe," she said, and I was surprised to see the determination in her eyes as she stared me down, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to tell you anyway."

"Good," I said, feeling like all the wind had been blown out of my sails—the fire of my anger fading.

"Sit down," Esme said, and for the first time in years—maybe the first time ever—she actually sounded like a mother.

Like _my _mother.

And I realized, as I pulled out a bar stool and did as she'd said, what my life might have been like if she'd been a real mom to me. If I'd had limits, if she'd said no, if she'd stuck to what she knew she needed to do. If she'd made the right choices.

If _I'd _made the right choices.

"You have to understand I never wanted to hide your father's world from you. I wanted to hide _you _from your father's world. I didn't want you to mix or to touch it, because by the time Eoghan was killed, I knew the Red Hands would only chew you up and spit you out. And I couldn't bear to lose another person I loved to them. Eoghan was bad enough."

"So you know that they killed him?" It felt better somehow to say it out loud; even though doing so made it real-there was a cathartic truth there.

Esme took a deep breath, her grip on the counter tightening even further, until I was certain the marble would simply crumble under her fingers. "Yes. I mean I didn't know for sure, but the circumstances . . .and well. . .Niall was never," Esme paused, as if she was collecting herself for what had to be said. "He never had the strongest grip on reality."

I thought this was a massive understatement, but decided this probably wasn't the most appropriate time to go for the cheap laugh so I stayed silent and let her finish. "It took a long time, but Eoghan finally realized that you and I would never be safe, not in the life that he was leading, so he made decisions to leave, to move away. He told Niall, and Niall convinced him to go on one final mission. I think I knew that he wouldn't come back—knew that after that, you and I would be on our own. So I came home, came back to the kind of protection my family offered, because Niall had power and he wasn't ever afraid to use it."

There were a million questions, a million thoughts, a million fucking emotions flooding me, but one stood out, above all the rest. "Why?" I asked, my voice raw and demanding. "Why the _fuck _didn't you tell me this before? Why did you let me go and on and on for years about how my father was a fucking hero? Why did you let me start Athair and sing about the fucking Irish cause?"

Esme just shrugged, her expression helpless. "I couldn't bear you knowing the truth. Sometimes, I guess we love our children too much to subject them to hard, bitter reality. That your uncle killed your father wasn't something that I thought you should ever have to know. It was better that you believed it was all very patriotic and sane and normal. That it was something to be respected and admired. Not the dirty, desperate, grim business it was."

"But you couldn't stand it," I countered, understanding finally beginning to break through the confused muddle of my mind. "You hated it so much you removed yourself from it completely. You told me to fucking change my last name so you wouldn't be associated with me singing about it."

Esme looked away, and I thought I saw tears in her eyes before she could turn her head away. "He wasn't technically my husband," she said softly, "but he was my _husband_. He was your father. You shouldn't have had to know what he did, or what was done to him. But I couldn't . . . I couldn't bear it. I should have been stronger for you, but I wasn't. Instead, I was weak."

I stood frozen, watching my mother cry over her dead husband and my dead father. I knew there was something I should be doing, some sort of comfort I should be giving, but I didn't know what. Carlisle would know, Emmett would know, Jasper would _definitely_ know. Instead, I just stood there awkwardly, staring down at the bowl of half-eaten pasta and wishing I wasn't so hopelessly fucked up.

"Esme," I stammered out, not entirely sure what to say after I got her name out. "I . . .I . . .I'm sorry."

She didn't turn back towards me, but I saw her hands loosen their grip on the edge of the counter.

"I wish I could say something else," I said in a rush, "but God, I don't even know what to say. I . . .I wouldn't have done what I did. I wouldn't have . . .I don't know, been _me_ I guess."

"You're not _that _bad," Esme said with a watery laugh, as her hands finally released and she surreptitiously wiped her eyes, but I wasn't sure what the point of that was, because when she glanced up, they were definitely red and damp.

"Oh, I am," I reassured her bleakly. "Or at least I was. I don't even know what the fuck I am anymore."

"You're not doing half bad figuring it out," Esme said, giving me a wavering, watery smile. And I knew Carlisle would be getting out of the dog house tonight. As for me, I didn't even feel bad about this. I couldn't remember the last conversation Esme and I had that hadn't ended with me feeling angry, frustrated and sick with guilt. It was fucking amazing what a little honesty could do.

"I'm trying," I said, and for the first time I felt like I actually meant it. I _was _trying. There wasn't any point in denying it anymore. The person I could have been—the person I guessed I might still be able to _be_—had been revealed to me in little flashes ever since Emmett had kidnapped me and Bella, and I didn't even feel embarrassed about trying to find that person in myself anymore. It felt weirdly good, as if I was stripping away years and layers of destructive, poisonous shit.

Esme wiped her eyes again, but this time it felt different, as if these weren't tears over Eoghan or over their failed life together, but maybe she was happy that we'd finally talked. "Finish eating and go see Bella," Esme ordered with another small smile. "I bet she's waiting up for you."

I picked up the fork and shoved some more leftovers into my mouth, chewing fast. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to see Bella and give her what I'd had Carlisle buy for her. I wanted to see her face when she saw the box. I wanted to see the smile on her face. And, I thought with a smirk, I wanted to see what she'd give me in return.

Finishing the pasta, I set the bowl and fork in the sink, and awkwardly turned to Esme, sure she'd want a hug or something equally strange. We hadn't touched in years. But she just waved me away with a shaky smile. "I know, I know," she said, "things haven't changed that much. You still can't stand me, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It's fine. It's progress. I know it's not going to be overnight."

"I don't hate you," I told her. "But yeah, progress. It's good. Night." I picked up Bella's gift and was almost out of the kitchen before Esme stopped me.

"Goodnight, Edward. And tell Bella . . . thank you. I wouldn't have done this if she hadn't encouraged me. She's a very special girl, but then you already know that," Esme said and I paused in the doorway, frozen with the implications of what she was saying.

_Bella _was the one who had told her to force me to talk? Something unsettling pumped into my stomach, roiling the pasta I'd just eaten until I felt almost nauseous. I didn't think it was possible that Bella had done what Esme said—after all, she avoided Renee every single day, and, as far as I knew, had refused to even be in the same room as her mother since we'd gotten back.

I could have asked Esme, but even though we had made progress, I still didn't trust her. She'd spent my entire life lying to me about my father. Who knew if she was even trustworthy at all?

I took the stairs three at a time and burst into Bella's room to find her lying in bed, wearing a pair of my boxer shorts and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt that she'd probably found in my closet. Normally this sight would have had me firing on all cylinders, but I was too preoccupied with Esme's revelation to even feel the slightest bit of arousal at the sight of her in my clothes.

"Edward," Bella said in surprise, sitting up, switching off the TV she'd been watching with the remote in her hand. "Is everything okay? Are _you _okay? Did Victoria interfere again?"

I brushed her questions away with an impatient wave of my hand, anger and fury pumping through my blood like the most potent drug. "What the fuck were you doing, telling Esme to talk to me? It's not your fucking place."

Bella's face grew dark, confusion knotting her forehead. "What the fuck was I doing?" she repeated, mystification in her voice.

"You fucking told her to talk to me! You knew I didn't want to do that!" I yelled, the grip on my temper completely gone.

Bella sit up a little farther, and this time there was a steely undertone when she calmly told me to stop yelling, but I was too far gone to even notice what she said. All I felt was the cage, closing around me-a cage designed by her, bars and restraints and chains that I had accepted because she'd convinced me to. No fucking _woman _ran my life; I'd never permit that. Not in a million fucking years.

So I told her that.

"You can't fucking control me," I sneered. "You aren't my girlfriend."

Her face went blank, wiped of everything, almost childlike in its emptiness. And for the first time since I'd known I cared about her, way back when we'd been locked up together, I realized that the hurt in her eyes was my fault. It had never been my fault before now, and weirdly, though I'd used to get off on the way Rosie had groveled during our fights, this just made me feel sick. I'd become exactly the man that Rosalie had warned her I'd turn into, and I could see Bella mentally backing away, mentally leaving me, which was only one step away from physically leaving me.

Maybe it would be better that way, I told at myself, angry that I could be this fucking whipped by a girl.

"Maybe not," Bella said, her voice still eerily calm, "but I was trying to help you, because you sure can use it." I opened my mouth to interrupt her, to spew more venom, but she held her hand up, and the suddenly fierce look in her eyes told me she'd kill me first. "Yes, I interfered, I guess if that's what you call the genuine desire to improve someone's situation. You and Esme had a lot of dirty, fucked up laundry. You didn't just need to clear the air, you needed to fucking disinfect it. You won't believe me, but _anyone _in this house would have told her to do the same thing. But I knew she'd listen to me, because she knows we're close."

"Does this mean you want me to help with Renee?" I sneered, trying to salvage what was left of my anger, but her words had taken the bite out of my own. I still felt sick with guilt over that hurt look on her face.

"Renee and I are . . .different," Bella said softly, scooting off the bed and walking over to the desk. "Esme loves you; Renee only loves herself." She held out a piece of paper, full of writing, towards me. "Here, read this. Maybe you'll understand then."

I took it and sat down on the edge of the bed, and she watched as I read through what she'd written earlier that day.

The blog entry added another layer to what I knew about Bella—even to what I felt about Bella. I wanted to fucking _kill _Renee for hurting her, for putting her in the position where she had to write this. To share this kind of emotional trauma. Maybe I should let her walk away, because she definitely didn't any more shit in her life, but the selfish part of me was so fucking desperate to keep her, so I could maybe let some of her goodness seep into me.

I finished reading and glanced up at her. "I . . ." I wanted to apologize, but the words wouldn't come. It appeared that one apology per day was my limit. It was better than before—better than nothing, really—but I wanted Bella to understand, to _know _how badly I felt about what I'd said to her. She'd been right; she was only trying to help.

"I know," Bella said softly, "you're sorry."

"I fucked up," I said in a rush.

"You did."

"I'm going to fuck up a lot."

"Trust me, I know."

I held up the present, suddenly glad that I'd chosen today to bring this to her. I hadn't known that I'd need an "I'm sorry, I fucked up," gift, but I was lucky enough to have one on hand. "I got something for you today."

"For me?" Bella looked so surprised that I felt even guiltier. Did she not _get _that she was intrinsically different?

"This was . . .so good," I said, gesturing to the blog entry. "You need to write, to give the world your words. And I hope this can help you with that." I handed her the box, and watched her face light up as ripped open the stripped paper and uncovered the words on the box.

"A laptop? A MacBook Pro? Edward. . .I. . .I can't accept . . ."

"Yes you can," I interrupted, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to me. "You absolutely can. Besides, you need one for your blog."

She smiled up at me, eyes bright and happy, and I felt a little less like the world's biggest asshat. "Okay, you're right. I absolutely can."

"Good," I said softly, leaning down to kiss her. "Now," I paused, brushing my lips over hers, "the question is, what are you going to give me in return?"

Bella kissed me again, a short but sweet affair, then pulled away. "There you go," she told me. "Satisfied?"

"Actually no," I said, surprised that she hadn't taken the bait I'd tossed her. In fact, despite the the gratitude on her face, she still looked very serious.

"Too bad," Bella said briskly. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to set up my new computer."

"I'm confused," I finally admitted.

Bella looked up from opening the box. "Edward . . .no, I'm not mad at you, but I'm not happy with you either. You said some not very nice things not five minutes ago."

"I apologized," I defended, "and I gave you a gift!"

"Thank you for that," Bella said, "but that doesn't change anything. Presents don't always take the sting away. And your words stung."

Guilt and shame swamped me, and I wondered, not for the first time, if this was even something I could do. From Bella's expression, she was wondering the same thing.

Maybe some time apart-an evening apart-wouldn't be a bad thing.

"I'll leave you be, then," I said, only slightly humiliated at how gruff and hurt my voice sounded.

"Goodnight, Edward," Bella said reaching up as I stood, pulling my head down for one more kiss, but instead of the promise that I recognized, it tasted bitter, like she was really saying goodbye.

I gripped her hand, the thought suddenly too awful to contemplate. "Don't leave," I found myself begging her.

She looked surprised. "I'm not going anywhere," she said with a smile. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Okay," I told her self-conciously. "Night, Bella."


	32. Sleepless Nights and Empty Rooms

**AN: All your lovely reviews made me smile these last few weeks. I would apologize again for the delay, but I think slowing down has really helped me get a better grip on the story and write better so. . .take from that what you will.**

**Thanks to my pinch beta this chapter, Wordninja_ali. My dear, brave girl Izzzy is inundated with NaNo. Lyrics are from Death Cab for Cutie's "Your Heart is an Empty Room."**

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* * *

****Chapter 31: Sleepless Nights & Empty Rooms**

**Burn it down, 'til the embers smoke on the ground,**

**and start new, when your heart is an empty room**

**with walls of the deepest blue.**

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****Bella**

I didn't sleep, but not because I didn't want to. I didn't sleep because I literally _couldn't_.

I spent an hour setting up my new laptop, and briefly considered starting a new blog entry, but I still felt emotionally wrung out from the one I'd written about Renee earlier that day—and the fight I'd just had with Edward.

No. I wouldn't let myself go down that path. If I even took one step, I'd never be able to retreat. I glanced up at the clock on the bedside table.

_**11:12 PM**_

That, I decided, was late enough that sleep was probably a good idea. And I _was_ tired, as if I could lay down and the weariness in my bones would just drag me down under, into an unthinking, _unfeeling_, sleep.

And that was what I really wanted—to sleep and not think. Not think. Not repeat Edward's words. Not replay every word of our fight. Definitely not to cry.

_**2:06 AM**_

I stared at the bright green numbers of the clock, counting the seconds until the next number flipped up.

_**2:07 AM**_

It was pathetic but I still hadn't managed to close my eyes yet, and my little counting game was the only way I'd managed to keep Edward's words out of my head. I felt as if I was teetering on the edge of something that I couldn't face. I was a master of ignoring what I couldn't handle—like my mother—but this was taking all my concentration, and I _still _felt myself slowly caving to the inevitable.

_**2:14 AM**_

I supposed that was because I'd grown up knowing Renee's number and never letting her in because I knew she'd only hurt me in the end. I'd foolishly let in Edward, even though I'd known better, and now I knew I was going to pay for my stupid decision.

_**3:01 AM**_

My eyes felt dry and gritty, as if I'd just bathed them in sand. I knew I should try to shut them, but I was terrified the moment I did all my evasive tactics would fail and I'd be worse off than ever.

I hesitated, trying to tell myself that I really _was _stronger than this but knowing it was a big fat fucking lie, and the words _pounced_, taking advantage of my sudden weakness, my indecision, sending me sprawling.

Hurt.

_You can't fucking control me. You aren't my girlfriend._

Wounded.

_You can't fucking control me. You aren't my girlfriend._

Incapacitated.

_You can't fucking control me. You aren't my girlfriend._

Bloodied.

_You can't fucking control me. You aren't my girlfriend._

Beaten.

_You can't fucking control me. You aren't my girlfriend._

I buried my head in my pillow and tried to find a place in my body that didn't physically ache with the agony of a truth I couldn't bear to face.

_**3:54 AM**_

The words echoing through my head ceaselessly, I finally had to admit to their destruction—but even that wasn't right. The words weren't to blame. They were just two sentences. Nine words. In a different order they'd be completely harmless.

No, it had been Edward who'd said them, and in the process had destroyed every single false hope that I'd nursed despite my better judgment.

_**4:36 AM**_

The clock was too bright now, the numbers blurring together until I squinted to see them more clearly. The neon green light, once cheerful and optimistic, instead seemed bitterly ironic.

The taunting little numbers, laughing at my sleeplessness and my heartache, hurt to look at directly.

Just as the truth did.

I'd believed—I'd _had _to believe, or else I could never have constructed that fantastical vision in my head of an Edward cured, an Edward changed, an Edward who didn't drink too much, or lose his temper, or sleep with bushels of women.

He hadn't yet, but what tonight had shown me was that he wasn't recovered. He was better but he wasn't cured. The demons that had turned him to their way of life hadn't disappeared; they'd merely gone into hibernation.

And the wrong word, the wrong _look _from someone was enough to bring them roaring back to life.

_**6:15 AM**_

The sun rose over the crest of trees around Esme's house, shining directly into my bedroom. I hid under the pillow as I came to the stark realization that though I might have been pretending this whole time that I could live like that—live my life with a ticking bomb—I couldn't.

Love or no love.

To stay would be sacrificing my own dignity and my self-preservation. I wanted to let him win, to let him take me over and rule me because I loved him, but I couldn't. I might love him, but I loved myself more—and that all led to the inalterable fact that I was going to have to leave.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But soon.

* * *

I didn't have to look in the mirror to know that I looked like hell. My complexion was chalky and there were significant bruised shadows under my eyes from the lack of sleep, but I went down to breakfast anyway, hoping that ingesting food would help improve my mood.

When I opened the door and Edward was standing in front of it, warily eyeing me as if I might murder him, I realized that nothing short of him falling to his knees and declaring passionate love for me was going to make this day any fucking better.

"Morning," he said hesitantly, and I wanted, more than anything, to start the process into motion—to begin to do the one thing that I couldn't even bear to consider—but I couldn't. Not when it came down to it, and Edward was looking at me as if the sun rose and set around my temper.

"Morning," I replied, hating the smile I gave him. Hating the way my heart leaped in my chest when he wrapped his arms around me. "I missed you," he breathed into my ear, and I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that I wouldn't cry. Every moment, every touch, every single second that I spent basking in the glory of what it meant to be in love with Edward Cullen had to be savored, treasured, and put away carefully, so that when I did what had to be done, there would be something left to get me through each long, interminable night alone.

"About last night . . ." Edward began to say, but I cut him off. I didn't want to fight with him. I couldn't bear it anymore considering what I'd decided.

"It's fine."

He paused, as if he was genuinely not expecting me to say that. "Okay. Good. I'm going to the studio today," he continued awkwardly. "Do you want to come?"

"Actually, I promised I'd go shopping with Alice today. She's designing a dress for Rose to wear this weekend."

"This weekend?" Edward gave me a confused glance as we headed down the staircase. I'd shoved my hands in my pockets, so I couldn't do something horribly stupid like reach out and grab his hand.

"Rosalie and Emmett's engagement party," I explained. "Didn't Esme tell you about it last night?"

"Not exactly. We were kind of . . .busy talking about other things."

"Ah."

"Bella," Edward forged ahead, "I really want to apologize for last night. That was . . .not okay of me. You were just trying to help."

I'd wondered when he apologized, which I knew he might, if it would make any difference. If I would see some other miraculous possibility where before, none had existed. But everything was just the same—there were the same hard choices that I'd been faced with before. Still, I appreciated the effort, and I knew that he wouldn't have made it if it was anyone else.

"Apology accepted," I said in a low voice, my fingers gripping the fabric inside the pockets of my jeans, as if I could hold onto my heart and keep him from willing it out of my body.

We walked into the breakfast room, and greeted Esme and Carlisle and Alice, who had already begun eating.

"So a party, huh?" Edward asked Esme as I shredded a piece of toast into tiny, inedible bits. Suddenly, when faced with food, my appetite was gone. What I needed was to talk to Alice—not for her to talk me out of this, but just plain Alice-comfort. I needed her arms to hold me and tell me that it would be alright, that I would eventually recover from the fact Edward Cullen was fucked up and I loved him anyway.

"I throw a garden party every June, as you know," Esme explained as she stirred sugar into her coffee, "and I wasn't going to this year because of . . . well. . .extenuating circumstances, but then Leah convinced me that it would be good publicity for Rose and Emmett to celebrate their engagement."

"A big party?" Edward asked, his mouth full of eggs.

Esme smiled, and I could tell from the way she'd thawed, the warmth of her eyes as she gazed at her son, that last night had made a world of difference. So much difference, in fact, that it was hard to regret pushing her to talk to him, even if it meant that I'd been forced to face the truth about Edward once and for all. "Yes," she told him. "Fairly large, as my parties go. I have a lot of work to do between now and this weekend. And Alice is making dresses for both Rosalie and myself. A wonderful chance for some publicity for the new collection."

Edward didn't reply, but I could see the gears in his mind turning fast. I wanted to get him alone so I could ask him what was on his mind, but before I could, he was on his feet. "I've got to go to the studio," he said, leaning down to brush a kiss on top of my head. Not even really a kiss—more like a peck. I told myself that his emotional distance was a blessing in disguise. After all, it would make it much easier to move on, to sever the ties between us, if he didn't fight me on it.

"Bella," Alice said testily, and I looked up from the mound of toast bits on my plate, to see her staring at me.

"Oh, sorry," I apologized. "What were you saying?"

"Your name. Only four times," Alice explained. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm just tired," I said hastily. "I didn't really sleep last night."

"You still up for shopping?" she asked.

"Of course. Let me just take a quick shower," I said, rising to my feet, trying not to hear the sound of the front door closing, but it echoed so loudly. And just like what he'd said last night, it just kept going and going and going . . .until I thought I might scream.

"Alright. Whenever you're ready, I'll be in the sewing room." Esme had given Alice a large, airy room full of windows that overlooked the ocean for her sewing, and she and Rose spent the majority of their time there of late. I felt a twinge of guilt when I realized that I had only seen it once, briefly, and I'd spent the rest of my time either with Edward or at the studio with him.

"It won't take me very long," I said, plastering a reassuring smile on my face. But I couldn't breathe, my throat felt tight and my skin hot as I left as fast as politeness allowed.

Why had I ever thought I could do this?

No. I _could_. I _had _to. Doing it was just going to tear me apart.

* * *

**The flames and smoke climbed out of every window**

**and disappear, with everything that you held dear.**

**But you shed not a single tear, for the things you didn't need**

'**cause you knew you were finally free.**

I couldn't take a deep breath until I was out of the breakfast room, away from all those prying, concerned, sympathetic smiles. I raced up the stairs, not even caring if anyone could hear me, only wanting to be alone, to try to mend the tattered defenses around my badly bruised heart.

I turned on the water as hot as I could stand and despite my promises to Alice that I'd be ready quickly, I just leaned against the frosted glass of the shower and let the spray beat down on my head. I thought I might feel better if I _could _cry, but my tears seemed locked up inside of me.

Maybe, I thought as I brushed out my wet hair, my movements sluggish, it just hurt too fucking much to cry.

Half an hour later, I was downstairs, looking better, but not feeling any better.

Alice took one look at me, and the corners of her mouth grew tight with concern. "Are you sure you're alright, Bells?" she asked as we walked to the waiting car in the driveway.

"I'm fine," I said, buckling my seat belt, glancing up at my best friend. "Just tired."

"You look . . .drained. And stressed."

"I've been working a lot on my blog," I said, more than a little defensively. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure that I could tell Alice after all. Though she'd been the only person I wanted to talk to, I didn't know if I could actually say what I'd been thinking out loud. "Some long nights."

"That's not all that's happening," Alice said softly. "You don't have to lie to me, Bella."

"Yes. Yes, I do." I tried to make it through the words without my voice cracking but I failed on the last syllable. I buried my head in my hands, afraid that she'd see the hopelessness that had consumed me since I'd realized that Edward wasn't even capable of feeling what I felt for him.

"Lie to everyone else. Even lie to Edward. But don't lie to me," Alice said soothingly, stroking my hair with her hand. "Besides, I know you better than that. I always know when you're hurting." She paused. "What did he do?"

"He didn't even do anything," I choked out through stiff lips. "Not really. He just . . .he _can't_. Not like I can."

"He's troubled," Alice said, without an ounce of judgment in her voice—which was so Alice-like, I could cry. Except that I couldn't. I could only choke back hiccupping, dry sobs. "I think he would, if he could. We all see how he is around you."

"I want more than that," I said, finally managing to catch my breath. "I deserve more than that."

"I know you do, and I'm glad you do, too. But what about Edward? Can you even do this?"

"I don't even know," I despaired. "I thought I could, but it's . . .it's hard. Too hard."

Alice wrapped her thin arms around me, and even though she was approximately half my size, I felt warmed and comforted and completely surrounded by her love and her empathy. The knot in my throat began to loosen. "You can. I know it's impossible, but you can do this. For you. And I think he'll come around eventually. He just needs to realize what he could lose," Alice said, her voice optimistic.

But I didn't want to hope. If I believed that he would, that one morning he would just show up at my doorstep, desperate to see me as much as I was desperate to see him, then I'd be doomed to a half-life of waiting. And so I shook my head slowly. "No. I can't think that way. It's . . .it's probably going to be over. Totally over." The knot tore loose and the first tear trickled down my cheek. "It'll need to be a clean break."

"If that's what you need," Alice soothed. "Just promise, you won't try to keep it to yourself again. Let me be there for you."

I didn't need to tell Alice that even her being there for me wouldn't assuage the rapidly-growing crater in my chest—she already knew. But weirdly, just having her know helped ease the pain until it was almost bearable. Bearable enough that I could brush the dampness off my cheeks and no longer feel as if I was splintering to pieces.

"Tell me about these dresses you're making. For Rose and Esme, right?" I wanted to change the subject, to stop myself from dwelling on the inevitable—salvage something from this mess. If Alice could gain some ground with her fashion career, then I thought this might all be worth it.

I'd believe that in about a hundred million years, but I still managed to smile at my best friend.

"Are you sure?" Alice didn't look any less concerned.

"I have to talk about something else. Think about something else. So yes, I'm sure. Tell me about the dresses. Or Jasper. Anything but Edward."

"If that's what you need, then alright."

"I've been a bad best friend," I confessed before she could continue. "I've been so wrapped up with Edward and I've ignored you."

Alice's sympathetic smile nearly undid me again, but I swallowed the tears back. Crying wasn't going to help anything or anyone—especially me. I just wanted to be distracted, to be busy with thoughts that had nothing to do with _him_.

"You have," she admitted, "but it's honestly alright. You care about him."

This wasn't heading in the right direction. Another tear slipped down my cheek and I angrily brushed it away. "We need to change the subject," I told Alice baldly. "Now."

"Oh, Bella." Alice leaned over and gripped my hand in her much smaller one. "I'm so sorry. I wish this could be different."

I briefly considered trying to take the high road—telling Alice that it was honestly nothing I shouldn't have expected—but I couldn't do it. "Me too," I whispered, gripping her hand. I swallowed hard, determined not to turn into a human water faucet. Shaking my head back, I gave my best friend a watery smile. "Tell me about Jasper," I insisted.

Alice's whole face lit up when I mentioned his name, and if I didn't love Alice quite as much as I did, I honestly would have been jealous that she'd found happiness when all I'd found was heartache. It wasn't fair, but that didn't have anything to do with Alice. Anything she got, she more than deserved.

"He's wonderful," she enthused. "I mean, we're totally different, and sometimes I wonder if we can keep this going with such diverse interests, but then I see him, and all that just melts away."

"I know you've always subscribed to the philosophy that opposite attract is utter bullshit. I guess that's been disproven now?"

Alice smiled, a tiny secret smile that made me wonder just how far behind Alice was to me when it came to falling in love. If I had to take a guess, I'd say she was in just about as deep as I was. "I knew you were going to bring that up."

"That's only because you brought it up over almost _every _Cosmo and gin and tonic we've ever had. Every glass of chardonnay, every bottle of Champagne. I know when the booze comes out, I'll eventually hear Alice Brandon's dating philosophy in full."

Alice actually blushed. "You know, you haven't been the only one who's had to hear it."

I gaped at her. "You didn't. Not—Jasper?"

She had the decency to look more than a little ashamed. "Not only that, I actually thought he was the _gardener _for Esme's next door neighbors. And instead of leaving well enough alone, the night we went out to Port o' Call and he took me in for a drink, I managed to insult his house, still thinking it wasn't his."

"Oh god." Alice's massive gaffe made all the times I'd insulted Edward look like child's play—except, of course, for Entry #457. And I'd already decided that when I left, I'd be deleting it just in case he ever decided to look it up.

Before, when Edward had just been the lead singer of Athair—a man I didn't know, and couldn't possibly comprehend knowing—writing it had been cathartic and an amusing, pointed way to pass the time. After I'd met him, and talked to him, and _understood _him, I was ashamed that I had written something so awful. Yes, it undoubtedly hadn't been the only terrible review of _Aiming to Misbehave_ but he didn't know those other writers.

But he did know me. While I was under no illusions that he could actually love me—not because I wasn't worth his love, but because he simply wasn't capable of it—he did care about me, and my opinion.

"But it's going well now, despite you lecturing him on his terrible taste in residences?" I questioned. Not that I really needed to ask. All I had to do was look at the glowing radiance in Alice's skin and the sparkle in her grey eyes to know the truth. She looked exactly as I had, only a day or two before.

She nodded, happiness seemingly leaking out of her pores. "He told me later that he thought it was funny."

"But it wasn't funny to you," I said, knowing Alice well enough to realize that this had been an excessively humiliating incident. Alice had a stiff spine and a lot of pride. She hated saying _anything _unkind, even if the person in question thought it was amusing rather than insulting.

"No," she shuddered, "but I was relieved that he didn't hate me afterwards."

"As if anyone could hate you," I said wryly. "You're Alice Brandon."

She giggled. "True. Now do you want to hear about Rosalie and Esme's dresses, or were you just trying to change the subject?"

"Honestly?" I sighed. "Not really, though I will listen if you want to tell me. I've been a bad friend, I'll take my punishment like a good girl."

"Of course you will. But seriously, Bella, you are the most masochistic person in the world. Do you think you could go, I don't know, five minutes without doing something to seriously harm yourself? I don't think I'll ever recover from the moment Carlisle told me you'd been kidnapped." Her voice dropped a little, wavering, and I saw the hurt in her eyes, the worry reflected there.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to do that to you."

"You're safe now. I just couldn't have. . .dealt with it. . .if you weren't. You know you're my family. Practically my sister." She leaned her head against my shoulder. "Which is why I'm going to spare you and only give you a brief overview of the dresses, instead of subjecting you to a stitch by stitch analysis of their construction."

"For that, I'll be eternally grateful."

"As you should be. Now, you weren't properly informed regarding the number of dresses I was creating for the party. I'm making three, not two."

"Oh? One for yourself? I asked absently, glancing out the window as we entered the town.

"Me? I'm actually wearing Chanel," Alice said proudly. "The third dress is yours."

* * *

**Esme**

"For your information," Carlisle said with a smirk from his position on the bed, "I did try to get Edward to talk to you."

I glanced behind me, my eyes meeting his. Something about the way he was gazing at me made my stomach feel full of butterfly wings and at the same time, like it was melting like chocolate gelato on a hot summer day.

"Of course you did," I told him. "But you weren't very successful, now were you?"

"I'm highly skeptical that you were honestly going to make me sleep in my own room if I couldn't use some of my influence to persuade him," he said wryly. "I haven't even seen the inside of that room since you appeared at my door three weeks ago."

I was fairly certain that Carlisle was never going to forget that I'd been the one to approach him—the one to apparently seduce him. If knocking on a door was truly an act of seduction. I'd told him in the strongest possible terms that it most certainly was _not_, but since this was Carlisle, my arguments had scarcely made a dent. He'd merely smiled cheerfully and stubbornly at me. If I wasn't so certain that I'd fallen in love with him, I'd probably dislike him quite a lot.

Oh wait. I'd already done that, for the previous ten years.

"Instead of you, it was Bella who had to give me the push in the right direction," I objected.

"If I'd told you to lie in wait for him, you wouldn't have done it," Carlisle said, all casual sweetness but I knew the man better now, and I was clearly aware that he was a master manipulator. Perhaps even better than I was.

I considered what he said and decided that, as usual, he knew me better than I did.

"And now you're just changing the subject," he continued. "You know I wanted to discuss Rose and Emmett's engagement party."

"A man who actually wants to discuss party planning? Hell might freeze over," I said lightly, wrapping a silk robe around my body and crossing to the bed. I ignored the ratty plaid pajama pants he was wearing. After being so long without a man, I'd forgotten how positively intractable they could be on certain matters. It appeared that this particular garment of his had longstanding sentimental value and he'd even managed to have them rescued from the trash. Now I merely pretended they didn't exist.

"Not party planning," Carlisle nearly growled, and I had to stifle a giggle. Esme Platt, almost giggling. Hell might _have _frozen over.

"You knew exactly what I meant," he continued. "And it isn't party planning. I want to talk about us as a couple, at the party."

Of course, I'd known exactly what he wanted to talk about, but I'd learned that it was so much easier to handle him if I made him work for it, just a little. "Oh?" I said, raising an eyebrow, as I switched on the bedside lamp. I also knew if I got into the bed before we'd come to a decision—or rather, before he learned it was inevitable that he support the decision I'd already made—then I might as well give up now. Carlisle, it seemed, possessed almost no honor when it came to persuading a woman to change her mind. There were apparently no boundaries he wasn't willing to cross when it came to getting his own way. I'd already found this out the hard way, and I certainly wasn't going to cede this particular argument to him. So I stayed far away from his predatory grasp.

"We talked about this already," I told him with a steady, calm voice. "I told you that I didn't think it was a good idea that we publicly announce we're a couple."

"_You _decided it wasn't a good idea," Carlisle objected, his blue eyes flashing with annoyance and what appeared to be frustration. "I wasn't anywhere in the equation."

He was right, because I'd known if I included him, then we'd only fight about it. Thank god, the truth of our sudden "friendship" had stayed out the papers and the gossip blogs, but I still felt the same way about the entire situation. It wasn't anyone's business who I dated or who I cared about, and I wasn't prepared to share that information with the rest of the world.

But I knew that Carlisle thought my decision was augmented by the fact that I was ashamed of him, ashamed of our budding relationship. I didn't think that was exactly true; I'd come to terms with the fact that we were together—or rather I'd been doing better with that particular fact. I probably wasn't going to be completely fine with it anytime soon, but I was adjusting.

"I know," I sighed. "I know how you feel."

"Do you?" Carlisle said with more than a little heat. "I love you, you incredible pain in the ass. And I don't want you to be ashamed of that."

My heart literally skidded at the three words that he'd been saying more and more frequently. I hadn't said them back yet, but I wasn't sure I'd be lying if I did.

I ignored the insulting epithet, because deep down, I knew he was right. I was stubborn and too independent and difficult—but thank god, he hadn't hit his limit yet.

"I'm not ashamed of you," I insisted. "Not the way you think. I'm just a very private person."

"And I'm not?"

"I'm not saying that," I ground out, my own voice rising.

"I love you," he repeated insistently, "and I hate the fact that we're going to be at this party together, and I have to pretend I don't. That's not fair to me, and it's certainly not fair to you."

I didn't want to, but I hesitated, just briefly, but long enough that he could sense my sudden confusion.

"Esme, don't do this. Don't put more roadblocks up. I've destroyed enough of them. Let me in without forcing me to bring out the armored tank."

I laughed, a little bitterly. "I'll think about it," I promised him. And I would. But that didn't mean that I'd be changing my mind.

A sharp knock on my bedroom door broke the silence between Carlisle and I as he contemplated what I'd just promised. I was sure if he had about twenty more seconds, he'd discover the massive holes in the promise, but the interruption had saved me, at least temporarily.

Gratefully, I crossed across the room and opened the door. Edward was standing there, his eyes downcast, his expression sullen and recalcitrant, as if he'd rather be just about anywhere else than standing in front of his mother, but he was still _here_. My heart leapt with joy and gratitude.

"Edward," I said warmly, opening the door further, only remembering after it was already wide open that Carlisle was lounging, without shame or a shirt, on my bed. I blushed bright red, and thought about stepping into the hall to talk to Edward, but he'd already seen Carlisle and absorbed the sight without a single emotion passing across his cold expression.

"Come in," I invited, trying to recover from my embarrassment. He did, barely moving into the room enough for me to shut the door behind him.

He gave a brief nod to Carlisle and then focused his attention back on me.

"Are you alright?" I asked, breaking the silence. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong, necessarily," he said, his eyes actually rising to meet mine. I thought it had maybe been ten or fifteen years since he'd actually been able to look me in the eye. This was really progress, I thought with excitement.

"What is it, then?" I pushed gently.

"The party. I have a few people I'd like you to invite."

Fear froze the blood in my veins. I knew the kind of people the old Edward might have asked me to invite to one of my parties—rough-housing, drug-abusing hooligans who would only serve to destroy an event that I'd spent not an inconsiderate amount of energy and money planning. But the sudden shame in his expression told me that this time wasn't like those other times. This was different.

He held out a ripped sheet of a paper with a few names scribbled on it. I didn't recognize any of them. "They're editors with some of the bigger music magazines," Edward explained. "_Rolling Stone, Spin_, _Blender._ I want them to meet Bella, talk to her."

I raised my eyebrow in surprise. This was a very un-Edward-like gesture. Maybe we were all wrong, and he really had changed. Maybe he was actually capable of loving Bella. I'd seen the haunted look on her face this morning and had thought that perhaps she was beginning to realize the demons she was up against. It had nearly broken my heart.

"Edward, this is wonderful. It's very sweet of you."

He shuffled his feet and his gaze returned to the carpet beneath our feet. I could tell he was embarrassed that I'd said he was sweet. And let's face it, he could hardly have been called sweet during the last ten years. Likely, he was just unused to being deserving of such a compliment on his behavior.

"She deserves it," he said gruffly. "Besides, unsurprisingly, I was an ass. This is kind of an apology."

"Did you actually apologize, too?" I asked with a firm, motherly tone. Five years ago, he would have spit my question back in my face, but I wanted to see how much he'd really changed. Apologizing hadn't really been in the Old Edward's vocabulary.

"I did," he admitted. "But I don't think it did much good."

"I'm sure it did," Carlisle spoke up from his position on the bed, "but sometimes it takes a bit more than just 'I'm sorry.'"

"Apparently," Edward exhaled with frustration.

"We females can be particularly trying, I know." I couldn't hold back the hint of a smile on my face.

"You are," he said, cracking a smile of his own, warming my heart. I wished Bella could have seen it—it likely would have melted any of her anger away. If she was truly angry, and not just sad, like I'd suspected earlier. Sadness, unfortunately, was a lot harder to apologize away.

"You know," I hesitated, "you could perhaps tell her something else. When some words aren't right, there are always others.'

"I don't do words," Edward explained. "Thus, the gesture. She. . .she needs to know how important she is. I can't tell her, I don't even know how to begin, so this is going to have to do."

And as abruptly as he came, he was gone, leaving the slip of paper behind. I glanced down at it, and knew that as sweet as it was, it was probably going to be an empty gesture. What Bella really needed were those words that Edward didn't think he could say.

I didn't hear Carlisle come up behind me, but I felt his arms wrap around me tightly. "I can hear those wheels grinding away in your head," he murmured, as he kissed the slope of my neck. "Penny for your thoughts?"

I shrugged. "I fear the worst. For both Edward _and _Bella."

"I think he fears it too," Carlisle said slowly. "What he just did? For Edward, that's the equivalent of a last ditch effort. He knows he's losing her, that he's maybe already lost her, but he's trying his best to salvage the situation, even though it's hopeless."

"If it's hopeless," I said with mounting frustration, turning until I could look him right in the eye, "why won't he do what he can to _truly _save it? Why keep his pride and lose her when he could gain so much more if he was honest?"

"If he even can," Carlisle said and he looked bleak indeed. Maybe even as bleak as the worst case scenario.

"You think she's going to leave," I stated quietly. "You think she's going to leave him."

"I don't think; I know. You saw her at breakfast today. It's only a matter of time now."

I dropped my head, massaging my temples, hating that I'd been dragged back into caring about Edward and what he did with his life—or rather, what he did to screw up his life. "Maybe I could talk to her . . ."

Carlisle gave a sharp shake of his head. "He's not ready to do this. He can't yet. That's what she's so sad about it. She finally sees it."

"So he just needs time." I tried to put an optimistic spin on the situation, but my words sounded so empty.

"I'd probably say it's more in the realm of years rather than months. You're his mother, I'm his manager. Between the two of us, we probably know him better than anyone else does. Do _you _honestly think he could love, _really _love, another person right now? And give them everything they needed to be in a happy, committed relationship with him?"

I wanted so badly to disagree with Carlisle's pronouncement, but as much as I hated it, he was right. There was no way he could possibly right now. He was battling too many of his own demons to be able to give enough of himself to someone else, even someone as wonderful as Bella.

"What are we going to do?" I whispered into Carlisle's shoulder as I leaned into him.

"What we have to do—support him when she goes. He'll need it, if only so he doesn't fall back into old destructive habits. You'll have to be a mother again."

"I'm always a mother," I argued. "You don't just _stop_."

"I know. But it's a lot easier being a mother when you're removed from the situation. You won't be this time. You're going to be front and center."

I sighed. As always Carlisle made a good point. "I'll be ready," I promised.

"Good. Because it's going to be soon." He leaned down, brushing a kiss on the top of my head. "Now come to bed."

* * *

**AN: Next chapter will be the engagement party and a major turning point for this story. I'm guessing about 15 more chapters to go? Maybe a few less?**


	33. Breakdown

**AN: I hope everyone had a lovely holiday-I know I did, it just wasn't long enough :) I have to beg everyone's patience for a little while longer. December/January is the busiest time at work and my hope is that in a month, I'll be able to update this faster.**

**Playlist is updated. And thank you to the fabulous, lovely Izzzyysprinkles, who is wise enough to threaten to thrash me for my many trespasses against the English language.**

* * *

**Chapter 32: Breakdown**

**Esme**

An hour before the party was scheduled to start, I stood in front of my mirror, Alice's leaf-colored dress bringing out the green in my eyes and the platinum wedding ring I'd been wearing in public since returning to New York so many years ago. Fingering the diamond solitaire and the simple matching band, I wondered if the ring had represented something real, then maybe my love with Eoghan would have lasted. Instead, I'd had a fake husband to go along with my fake ring.

When I'd met Eoghan, I'd been doing everything I could to break the mold, and falling in love with him had helped me escape, for good I'd thought, the prison of my parents' unapologetically demanding world. But all that rebellion had faded away with his death and for the last twenty-four years, I'd been doing everything I could to color within the lines—ring and all. And for what? To protect Edward?

He clearly didn't need any protection; at least any that I was able to give

Staring at my reflection, the outer wrapping that so flawlessly showcased my slavish obedience to the society I lead, I wondered how living so strictly had even benefited me. Edward might not loathe my presence but I'd done nearly everything I could to push him away for good. If our relationship could be salvaged, it would be a not-so-minor miracle. I had a large circle of acquaintances that I couldn't stand to spend more than thirty seconds with at a time. Worst of all, I'd been deeply, secretly miserable for years, but stuck in too rigid a rut to ever attempt to extricate myself.

My fingers traced the smooth platinum of the ring and I hesitated. It would be so easy to just slip it off, to slip my arms around Carlisle's broad shoulders, to let whoever wanted to talk, talk. Their words were just words. It wasn't as if I even truly cared what they thought, but the pretense was a habit practiced over too many years to break easily.

There was a knock on the door and I walked over to it, my heels sinking slightly in the luxurious carpeting, and turned the handle, half-expecting to see Carlisle on the other side, but it was Alice and Bella in the hallway. Alice was nearly bubbling over with excitement, her cheeks flushed, her gray eyes sparkling and alive. Bella was dressed exquisitely in a slate blue dress fluttering with chiffon accents. It was the perfect shade for her, but she looked ill and exhausted, the makeup on her face unable to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

I thought of the list of music editors on my desk, each individual duly invited and coming to this afternoon's party, and my heart ached for Edward. He didn't know now that his gesture was going to be pointless. Bella looked like a woman who knew the truth, but couldn't quite face it, and knowing my son like I did, I understood it was only a matter of time before he pushed her off the cliff. The moment was going to be heartbreaking when it happened, and so though I gave Alice my usual polite smile, I reserved something rather more genuine for Bella, squeezing her hand gently as she brushed past me.

Alice was all nervous excitement and overflowing optimism for the future, but the air around us nearly ached with the dead hopelessness seeping out of Bella.

"You look even better than I thought you would," Alice squealed and I glanced over to Bella, only to see her jerk her facial muscles into something resembling a smile, like a puppet on a string. It was almost too much to bear, and I admitted to myself that I couldn't wait for the inevitable to happen. It was almost too painful to watch her like this. "The dress looks amazing on you."

I forced my attention back to Alice. "I think it's more the dress than me."

"That's exactly what Bella said!" Alice exclaimed.

Privately, I thought she was probably right. In ideal circumstances, without a rain cloud hovering above her head, Bella would have been radiant in the dress, but these weren't exactly ideal circumstances.

"Just one final touch," Alice continued, "and then you'll be perfect." She reached up and hooked two silver strands of leaves into my earlobes. "Now you're ready!"

I thought that regardless of the party being a coming-out party for her fashion designs, Alice was acting a trifle oblivious to Bella's pain, but as she rearranged a strand of my hair, I saw her glance back at her friend and the solicitous sympathy in her eyes changed my mind. Alice looked back up at me, and there was the briefest moment where we understood each other perfectly. Bella could not be allowed to drift away, drift away from us.

I straightened, taking one last glance into the mirror. I hadn't seen Bella look in it once, even though I didn't know a single girl who wouldn't primp in the mirror before a party.

I wondered if Alice wanted us to simply continue down to the garden, to the final preparations rather than cornering Bella and ask her why she looked so sad. I almost acquiesced to her, let her guide Bella downstairs, but the desperation rife in Edward's eyes only a few days before stopped me. I could let her go—I would have let her go any time before this moment—but today I couldn't. I couldn't do it to Edward, and I couldn't do it to her.

"Bella, wait," I said softly, catching her arm as she walked behind Alice. "Is everything alright?"

Her brown eyes turned toward mine, and I wasn't surprised to see she was near tears.

"No," Bella whispered. "You . . ." she stuttered, then cleared her throat. "You don't have to do this. Be nice. It won't change anything."

"Maybe not, but if it helps you to know that I care about you, and I care about Edward, then you should know."

She hesitated, and Alice hovered behind her, as if she was desperate to grab Bella away and save her from the pain, but as I felt the prongs of my "wedding" ring dig into my palm, I wanted to tell Alice that it was impossible. Pain and love were intertwined, and though she was blissfully happy with Jasper today, that didn't guarantee that she'd never feel the inevitable throb of disappointed hopes or the cruel sting of betrayal.

Or, in Bella's case, the hopeless, aching realization that the man you love isn't capable of loving you back.

"Okay," Bella said quietly. "Thank you." She walked out the door, to where I didn't know. Maybe to compose herself before she had to go downstairs and pretend to exist in a world she no longer believed in.

"Esme," Alice said as we walked down the stairs together. "Please don't. She . . .I'm not sure how long she can last. I'm honestly not sure she can make it through the day."

"I know you're protective. I know you worry about her. But I can, too. I just want her to know that I'm thinking of her today, and for the record, I'm sorry. Sorrier than I can say."

"I'm sure Edward will be, too," Alice muttered bitterly, and I couldn't blame her for the sentiment. Though he tried to hide it, I knew he would be devastated by Bella's departure, but maybe he needed to feel that way—he sure as hell needed something to jerk him out of this emotional moratorium.

We were just about to enter the gardens, but I hesitated, and Alice turned to look at me. "Wait," I said, the sudden, rather abrupt decision washing over me in a rush. "I need to . . ." I glanced down at my ring and yanked it off, setting it down on the side table. An insidious freedom snaked its way through me, and I glanced back at the ring, shining so innocently in the afternoon sun. "There. It's done."

Eoghan was dead and buried, so many years ago, but I swore I felt the brush of him on my skin, the approval of my decision in the swirl of emotions I felt as I opened the French doors and faced the rest of my life.

The party was in full swing when Carlisle found me standing with a group of socialites that I'd known since before I'd ever gone to Ireland. I'd seen several of them note the lack of ring on an important finger, but no one had said a word—and no one would, at least to my face. All the words would be whispered behind flawlessly manicured hands gripping flutes of champagne.

"Ladies," I introduced, "this is Carlisle Masen. He is Edward's manager."

The group murmured their greetings, and I knew I had just fed them more ammunition for their pernicious gossip, but I found a strange freedom in not caring for the first time in my life.

Lily gave a cultured snicker behind her fingers, and I glanced up at her. "Is something amusing?" I asked her, my gaze demanding she tell the truth in front of the whole group—not spread lies and assumptions behind closed doors.

"I just never thought I would see you, Esme, consorting with the help on your lawn."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood," I corrected sweetly. "Carlisle isn't here in his capacity as Edward's manager. He's with me." I leaned over and brushed a kiss on his cheek as my fingers found his and gripped them reassuringly.

I didn't have to look at him to see how shocked he was; I merely had to stand next to him to feel the surprise radiating from him.

I seemed to have scared Lily speechless, but Miranda spoke next. "_With _you, Esme? I confess to some confusion."

"I have no idea why. I was perfectly clear. Carlisle and I are together." This time I dared to glance over at him, and he appeared to have recovered enough to give me a triumphant smirk, his hand tightening over mine.

"I have to admit to some confusion myself," Carlisle smoothly added. "I have no idea why such a lovely woman would deign to look at me, but you can see for yourself-I am hers, to direct at will."

Someone—it would have had to be Eleanor—hissed about mixing business with pleasure, but before I could direct a rejoinder, Carlisle was tugging me away and I barely had time to call out my leave.

Carlisle pulled me all the way to the side of the house, which was currently devoid of guests. "Just what are you playing at?" he demanded, while the smile from earlier still played at the corners of his lips. "Couldn't you have given me a bit of warning?"

I couldn't help it; I giggled at his annoyance. Years seemed to have lifted away when I'd removed the ring. I hadn't had so much fun at a party of my own, or with baiting those annoying, elitist, snobbish bitches, in as long as I could remember. I also couldn't remember staring at a man that I had ever desired more. Even Eoghan.

I'd loved Eoghan with the fierce determination of a girl who had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Carlisle was different; he reminded me that instead of the bleak, empty years of the future, that I had a _life_. He reminded me that I had everything to gain, and absolutely nothing to lose.

And I loved him.

Instead of answering him, I pulled him towards me, tugging at his arms until he was so close I could feel heat of him and the sandalwood of his cologne. "I love you," I whispered a breath away from his mouth. "I couldn't give you any warning because I didn't know either, not until this moment."

He twisted his fingers up with mine. "You're not wearing your ring anymore," he murmured. "You can't know how happy I was to see that I didn't have to attempt to claim you while you were wearing another man's ring."

"It was time to take it off," I admitted. "Perhaps past time."

"It was." He still sounded a little shell-shocked, but that didn't excuse that he still hadn't responded to my confession. He loved me, I _knew _he did—hadn't he told me in as many words before?

"Carlisle," I reprimanded gently, the effectiveness significantly reduced by the smile I couldn't hold back, "are you going to tell me you love me or not?"

"I thought we were only waiting for you?" he asked smugly, and I was forced to remember that at one time, I'd loathed his sarcastic, overly-charming remarks.

I raised an eyebrow, my fingers gripping the sleeves of his pale blue suit jacket. "Do I have to bring the Ice Queen back for a repeat performance?"

"I'm sure you'll still need her," Carlisle confided. "I don't doubt I'll be out of line more often than you'll like."

"I don't doubt it," I ground out. "Just like now."

He paused, and gave a deep gusting sigh. "You know how I feel, Esme," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "You've known for a long time—long before this afternoon."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wasn't very nice to you," I admitted, leaning my head down on his chest. "But I'm being very nice now."

"You are," he murmured into my hair. "And I love you for it. Actually, I love _you_."

"Damn straight you do," I whispered as I pulled him down to my mouth and kissed him fiercely. "Don't you dare forget it."

**Bella**

I didn't exactly hide, but ignoring Alice's explicit instructions (and her surprising tenacity at cheering me up), I avoided the majority of the crowds. I wanted to wish Rose and Emmett congratulations but all the forced, stiff merriment only seemed to exacerbate the loneliness I felt. Nevermind that their quiet glow of happiness made me feel like a sick, pathetic loser stuck in a skin two sizes too small.

And, I told myself with an internal quiver of abject misery, it wasn't as if Edward would come looking for me anyway. His attitude of late had been similar to my own: when together, we were pleasant, but distant. There were no more long, lingering kisses, only polite brushes across his cheek or on the top of my head. Perfectly acceptable but not exactly brimming with passion. I spent a lot of time during the night trying to convince myself that his absence in my bed was a blessing in disguise, but truthfully, I hated the distant affection we seemed to have resorted to. I had never really expected that he would fight for me, and I tried very hard not to let it bother me when he didn't.

The longer our little apathetic rut continued, which was nearly a week at this point, the more I knew I should pack my things and go—but I felt stuck to the ground with a combination of crazy glue, regret, and an all-consuming need to be with him for just a little while longer, no matter how bad it got between us.

Sometimes I thought he'd pulled back so that he didn't do any more damage to the fragile, cracked _thing _that lay between us. Nothing had been right after the night he'd yelled at me for talking to Esme, and he had to realize that they were never going to be right again. At least not with him so emotionally fucked up.

So I hid. I ran away. I stared at him from across the room and tried to memorize the curved angle of his jaw. The way he smiled, _really _smiled, when he talked about his new music. The beat of his fingers against Esme's white breakfast table. When he lingered, so agonizingly briefly, as he'd kiss me goodnight—hesitating as if he wanted to deepen the kiss, to resume his original place beside me in my bed, but he never quite lingered long enough and, I told myself bitterly those minuscule moments should have been all I needed to know.

"You're hiding."

I looked up to see him walking towards me, and despite my better judgment, my heart fluttered, literally feeling as if it was skipping a beat. I tried to sneer but inside, I was ridiculously hopeful that he'd changed his mind.

That he had changed his heart.

That he had _grown _a heart.

But I knew better than that, and I steeled myself against his friendly tone—much friendlier than he'd been the last few days.

"It was loud," I answered somewhat truthfully. There had been too much laughter. Too much fucking celebration. "I wanted some quiet."

"You've been quiet a lot lately," he noted, the jovial smile melting to reveal what seemed to be genuine concern. He also inched closer than he'd been since the morning after the fight. The morning when I'd made up my mind to give up, leave him, and go back home.

I shrugged, my heart in my throat as he deliberately wrapped the hand not holding a beer bottle around my waist and looked intently into my eyes. "It's a lot to take in," I finally admitted. "So many changes." I kept my phrasing deliberately vague, but one of the most significant changes in my life was him. He could be obtuse, but he wasn't stupid. He understood.

"Things haven't been . . ._right_. . .between us," he stated hesitantly, as if he were trying to navigate around a minefield. "I don't like it."

I could lie . . .or I could tell the truth. I debated for a moment before the words just tumbled out my mouth without a single consideration for how what I said could help me pull away from him for good. "I don't either."

He paused, carefully considering his words, I thought. "I apologized, but that didn't help. I thought it might, but then, I don't really know what I'm doing. So I finally decided that maybe it's not the words, but actions. A gesture?" Edward slipped his hand around my shoulders and started to lead me back into the party before I could even fully comprehend what he was saying. He wanted to fix things? Didn't he _get _that things were too far gone to fix? That maybe he was the one who needed all the fixing?

Edward steered us through the growing crowd, glasses of champagne clinking around us, until a knot of people dissolved and he stopped in front of a man in a beige summer suit, white shirt open at the throat.

"Bella," Edward said formally, deferentially (which was a tone of voice I'd never thought he even possessed), "this is Seth Clearwater."

"Bella Swan," I added, reaching my out to shake his. He was maybe in his 30s, with close-cropped dark hair and even darker, nearly impenetrable eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Edward here," Seth said, gesturing with his glass, "has told me so much about that I admit I couldn't turn down the invitation to finally meet you."

I glanced up at Edward, questions in my eyes. "Ah," Seth added, observing my confusion, "our mysterious musician hasn't told you why I'm here. I'm the online content editor at _Rolling Stone_."

"Wow," I stammered, astonished at the way the vista was opening up before my eyes, "I'm honestly . . .shocked that you're here. But very happy," I added, feeling hope bloom inside me for the first time in a week. And God, it felt good. Almost better, even, than standing in front of Seth Clearwater.

Edward smiled down at me, and there was a hint of something in his face that I didn't like. Was it the exultation in his eyes? Or the way his lip curled almost indulgently? As if I was a rent-a-pet and he'd just bought another few hours on the meter.

The hope dimmed a bit, but I kept smiling. Not really for me, but for the possibilities of the future.

"Edward has told me great things about you. I'd love to read some of your work."

"I had a blog. . .before," I explained, "but it wasn't very good. I felt like I was heading the wrong direction, but meeting Edward has really given me a new insight on music and musicians. I have a few new entries written from a different perspective."

"I'd love to read them," Seth said warmly, and the hope blossomed. I didn't need Edward or Esme or my mother to tell me the blogs were good—I knew they were. I wasn't ashamed to know, deep down, that Seth would think they were good too, and this might be the first step in finally heading the right direction.

"Of course," I said, as if it had ever truly been up in the air. I'd send the blogs to the Pope if I thought it would help.

"Spending more time with a real musician always helps, I find. You were lucky to be able to find such a music devotee in Edward," Seth said with a twinkle in his eye, "though I think he may have been luckier to find you."

I wanted to shut my eyes and throw up as the party roiled around us, the eye of the hurricane. I wanted to run more than I'd wanted to run all week. But I forced myself to stand there, and face the inevitable breakdown of what I had been so sure was love.

"Excuse me?" Edward asked, and all I could hear was the edge of uneasiness in his voice.

"Bella's lovely, and really, it's high time you managed to commit to a great girl. Rose here seems to have escaped your clutches and settled for someone who could," Seth said, with a jovial smile, as if he had no idea what he was doing. Which he didn't.

There was a quaking in the air; a literal moment of absolute, hushed silence before the storm broke.

"I think you've misunderstood. Bella's not _with _me." Edward looked panicked, and any other moment I would have felt sorry for him, but I was trying to steel myself for the inevitable humiliation still to come.

"She's not?" Seth glanced over at me, wondering how I was taking this. I tried to keep a neutral expression on my face, but I think I must have failed, because he looked concerned. "I thought you said she was staying with you at your mother's house. That you'd been spending a lot of time together. That she was in the recording studio with you."

"She's just a friend." Edward's voice cracked. "Only a friend."

Seth's face hardened, whether towards me or towards Edward, I wasn't sure, but I had finally heard and seen enough. The hope withered—Seth Clearwater would never call one of Edward Cullen's groupies and ask to read their blogs. And suddenly, that was what I was reduced to. A groupie.

Edward looked dazed, as if he didn't get what had just happened, and as he drank out of his beer bottle, I fled, my straw wedges making thwacking sounds on my feet as I flew across the grass. The pounding noise as I raced up the stairs to my room matched the thrumming of my heart. I didn't feel like crying—at least not yet—I only felt the hot, hard ball of embarrassment and rage that threatened to choke the life out of me.

I opened the door with so much force it slammed into the opposing wall. I ignored it in favor of pulling out a shopping bag from my closet and throwing everything from the set of dresser drawers into it. Brightly colored shirts and jeans and shorts spilled out of the top like a volcano, but I didn't take a second to breathe—I careened into the bathroom and added the toiletries that had been sitting on the azure blue marble counter.

All week I hadn't expected him to follow me, and he hadn't, but this time he must have recovered from his insulting stupor, because I heard his heavy footfalls as he entered the bedroom. I paused, breath coming in hard, rasping gasps.

"Bella, what the fuck is going on?" He appeared in the doorway, with the nerve to look not only confused, but upset. _Upset,_ I wanted to laugh hysterically, _he was upset._

If he was upset, I was fucking murderous.

But I stayed silent, adding shoes to a second bag, and a sweatshirt he'd bought me in one of the tiny souvenir shops lining the charming, picturesque streets. We'd walked to town for what he proclaimed was the best gelato on the east coast, and I'd gotten cold. He'd insisted on buying the brightest one he could find—neon pink—laughing as I'd donned it, saying he'd never be able to lose sight of me.

At the time, I'd believed him. Believed that he didn't want to lose sight of me. But my eyes were wide open now, and I knew the truth.

"Bella, talk to me." The pleading didn't lessen my anger; it only reminded me of when we'd been locked up, at the mercy of Jane and Niall and the Red Hands.

When I'd cried.

When he'd cried.

When we'd fled together into the night and he'd looked at me so solemnly, telling me he wasn't ready for this to be over. For us to be over.

I snapped, or maybe I shattered. The pain and the anger and the surging devastation for everything we could have been but wouldn't ever be hit me all at once and the words just exploded out of my mouth.

"_Just friends_?" I shrieked, dumping the bag at my feet. It ripped and a half-dozen pairs of shoes tumbled out—designer sandals and dollar store flip-flops fell in a pile at my feet, but I didn't even notice. Didn't even care. I was too busy yelling at Edward for all his crimes against me. "_I'm not your fucking friend."_

"Bella," he said, his voice patient but inching upwards in volume. In another time, another place, I would have appreciated the attempt to not lose his temper, but I was too far gone to care.

"Shut the fuck up," I growled. "I'm done talking."

"I apologized," Edward spat out.

"I don't care!" I shrieked, whirling around, my hair whipping around my face. "Are you going to apologize for what you just said? It's not an apology if you keep doing it. And you will. It's only a matter of time. One day, I'll come home and you'll be in the middle of a drunken orgy, and you'll look at me and say you're sorry, like you truly think that I'll just forgive you. But I can't. I can't. Not anymore."

I thought he would continue to beg me to forgive him, to try to get me to stay, but he didn't say a word—just stood and stared at me. My anger dissipated almost instantly at the resigned expression on his face. He'd known this was coming, just as I did, and there really wasn't a reason to be mad at him. He couldn't help what he wasn't capable of, or what he _was _capable of.

"I wish this could be different," Edward said quietly, his eyes latching onto my feet. "I wish _I_ could be different."

"But you're not," I said as calmly as I could, hoping my voice wouldn't break as the delayed tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. I didn't want him to see me cry, to see how completely this was going to destroy me, but I didn't think I could help it anymore. In about ten seconds, he was going to see everything, naked and bare across my face: how much I loved him, how much I was going to miss him, how much I hated to leave.

I knew the moment he realized it. It took every ounce of pride I had, but I looked him straight in the eyes.

"Bella," Edward confessed haltingly, "if I had known. . .if I had even suspected. . .I wouldn't have. I _couldn't _have done this to you. I . . .I. . .care about you," he finally got out, "but I can't give you what you want. What you need."

"I knew," I said, as the first tear trickled down my cheek. "I knew and I did it anyway." I reached for him—pulling him close to me, and he didn't even try to hold back as we clung to each other. "I shouldn't have," I whispered into his shoulder. "It's not your fault."

"You're mad," he murmured into my ear. "I don't want you to hate me."

"I'm not mad. I'm sad."

"I don't want you to be sad either," Edward said.

I bit my lip hard, hoping more tears wouldn't fall. "I don't think you have a choice," I whispered.

"You're going to go back home?" he asked, pulling away and brushing the pad of his thumb across the dampness on my cheek. "Alone?"

"I need to be alone." I hadn't realized it until I said it, and then I knew that it was the absolute truth. I needed to get away, to try to re-center myself and figure out what it was that I wanted. The only problem was that I already kind of had, and what I wanted was Edward—but I couldn't have him.

"You're going today?" he asked slowly.

I wanted to tell him no, but I couldn't help but nod. I think we both knew that if I didn't go home today, I wouldn't be going home at all.

Because of the party, we didn't tell anyone I was leaving. It was better this way; better that nobody would see me cry.

Better that nobody could see that it was literally killing me to leave Edward behind.

Edward had managed to unearth a duffel bag from a dusty closet somewhere, and we had silently packed my things together. Almost all my things were in the bag when he spoke up, grabbing my hand. "Bella, is there anything I could say to make you stay? Maybe if we were _really _just friends?"

I shook my head, hating the thought of crying more—of crying _harder_—in front of him. Why couldn't he just leave it alone and let me go with even a sliver of pride intact?

"What if I told you want you wanted to know? What if I told you why I made _Aiming to Misbehave_?"

Shocked, I could only stare at him helplessly with wet eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You came to the concert, wanting to know why I made the album. What if I told you—would you stay?"

"Here? With you?"

He nodded.

"I . . .I. . .I can't," I stammered, and then paused. "You know, I don't even know if I care anymore."

"You don't?" Now I wasn't the only person in the room that sounded surprised. "I don't get it."

I took a deep breath and hoped I wouldn't cry even more. "When I first met you, I only saw the album—only saw your mistakes and the way I thought you'd ruined your potential in a series of public meltdowns. But now I know you, and that album isn't what defines you for me. Someday," I paused, trying to collect myself as more tears fell, "someday, you have to let the rest of the world see what I see. Even if it takes fifty years. Or a hundred."

Edward looked at me solemnly, taking in what I'd said, and I shifted my attention back at the duffel bag, rattled by his serious stare.

"Maybe," he said, and then turned away and I knew the conversation was over. Not that I had honestly expected much else.

And with that acknowledgment came the final blow that he wasn't going to change—willingly or unwillingly—and I was going to have to walk out of his life and for the rest of it, watch from the sidelines. Watch and know that despite Edward Cullen's outer demeanor, there was a real man inside. A honorable man, and a kind one. And I'd have to live with the fact that I'd be one of the only to ever see him that way.

When we walked to the car waiting in front, my teeth ached from the force of holding them together. I just hoped he didn't try to embrace me or kiss me or even touch me. He seemed to understand what I wanted and he kept a safe distance between the two of us until the moment I was in the car, and he was leaning inside.

"Goodbye, Bella," he said in a harsh whisper, and for a split second I saw the reality in his face, the glimmer of something that might have been tears in his eyes. "Good luck." And he leaned down and kissed me.

At that moment, I didn't care that everyone would think I was a groupie. A cheap slut, willing to trade her self-respect for a few nights alone in bed with Edward Cullen. I only wanted him, but then the moment passed, and he shut the door with a decisive slam and when I looked up again, the blank, uncaring mask was back, masking his features.

And then the car pulled out of the driveway and he was gone, fading into the afternoon sun as if he'd never been a part of me. I took a deep breath and knew I had no option, but to figure out what I was going to do with that huge, empty expanse of nothingness that was my life without him in it.

* * *

**AN: One of my readers (I wish I could remember who it was, but I can't) begged me not to "New-Moon" Bella and Edward the next chapter. Unfortunately it was very necessary (they both need to grow up, though he has a significantly farther distance to go than she does), but I loved the verb.**


	34. The Album

**AN: I profusely apologize for this massive delay. It's cruel of me to write such an epic fail chapter, and then not update for almost two months. However, this proved to be hard to write, harder than I ever anticipated. Now that I'm over the hump, I don't think I'll have that same kind of writer's block again. I have to thank my darling Izzzyy for holding my hand multiple times (I really needed it), and for being a beta extraodinaire.**

**The song that Edward writes this chapter is one of my all time favorites: "Radio" by Alkaline Trio.**

**

* * *

****Chapter 33: The Album**

**Edward**

I watched Bella as she drove away, the flame of hope slowly but inevitably dying out in her brown eyes. She thought I was heartless; unable to feel even the most basic of human emotions. Fuck, I'd have agreed with her only twenty-four hours ago, but while my face remained frozen with apathy, inside a flaming volcano of _feelings_ erupted, too powerful to push back. The irony being, of course, that Bella had left—left _me_—because I'd as good as confessed that any feelings she had were completely one-sided. That I didn't even _have _feelings.

If she could only fucking feel me _now_, I seethed as I wrenched the front door back open. I paused, the obnoxiously happy sounds of the party cutting through the Pandora's box inside me. I tried to shove all the annoying feelings back down; tried to remember what it was like _not _to feel, but I couldn't it anymore.

_Fuck this._

I wasn't going to subject myself to this, no way. Not right now. Slamming the door behind me instead of going inside, my boots crunched on the gravel of the driveway as I walked towards the main road. The dust was still floating in the air from the town car that had driven Bella away, and I found myself gulping the pollution, the burn in my lungs stoking the fire inside me more and more, until I thought I'd choke on the dirt and grime.

Pain sharpened and whittled the fury of emotions down to just one.

I fucking hated her. I wished I'd never even seen her; that I'd taken one look at her and sent her away, knowing she wasn't good. Or even better—that I'd fucked her and left her for broke on the dirty, rotten couch backstage. Just another whore in a never-ending parade of them.

Anger fueled me, drove me harder, until I reached the end of Esme's long-ass driveway. I glanced back up, towards the house, knowing what waited for me there..

_Whiskey_. I could almost feel the satiny burn on my tongue as it trickled down my throat. For a second, I considered going back inside and losing myself in a bottle of whiskey, the amber lights glinting through the sharp crystal facets of one of Esme's priceless Waterford tumblers. Or maybe I'd just chug it straight from the bottle, humiliating Esme at her party and ruining Rose and Emmett's engagement celebration. It felt natural, like a pair of Chucks I'd worn for years.

_Sex_. Women who practically fell over themselves to be my whores. Who would degrade themselves in every possible way just so that I'd glance their direction.

I hesitated, the anger growling like a fierce, living thing inside me. It would be so easy to silence the animal, to feed it, to watch it grow and morph into something I could chain to me, bend to my will. I knew how to do it-the vices I'd always relied on were so tempting I nearly turned and returned to the house.

But I hesitated just long enough—long enough that I knew while it would work; after all, it _always _worked—it wouldn't change a fucking thing. Returning to the comfort zone I'd dwelled in for ages wasn't going to repair the old me that the last month had blown to rubble.

With the two crutches I'd relied on through every crisis in my life out of the question, I turned to a third. Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I dialed quickly before I came to my senses and changed my mind.

"Conor," I barked into the phone, not even waiting for his greeting, "meet me in the studio in half an hour."

"Edward? I thought we had a few days break." Conor sounded confused.

I felt the panic of _feeling _begin to creep up, and I swallowed convulsively, trying to push it back. "I know," I bit off, "but there's been a change of plan. Half an hour. And bring the rest of the guys."

I ended the call and dialed another, a taxi service in the area, giving directions to my location.

When the taxi came, there was a brief moment of regret, wondering if maybe perhaps I'd be missed at the party, that someone besides Bella would even notice I was gone, but it evaporated as soon as the door shut behind me.

They had only wanted the me that Bella had liked, that could like Bella back. And we both knew that man had only been a whimsical fantasy. I dug the note pad out of my pocket, and anger at Bella, for starting something she'd known was hopeless, and at myself, for letting her, began to spiral out of control as I scrawled words down on the page.

* * *

The boys weren't happy I'd wrenched them away on a Saturday, but after I gave a dark glare to Conor, he managed to wrestle them into line. We ran through the song I'd written first, the day that Bella had joined me in the studio.

The raw words and the driving, pulsing beat scraped my nerves, but I focused only on the music, not on the fact that Bella wasn't sitting on the other side of the window, hair falling into her face as she scribbled in her notebook.

The last chord faded in the air, and I glanced up, surprised at the sudden hush in the room. The guys were typically a loud bunch, and they liked to nag each other after we rehearsed, offering corrections and even suggestions at how to improve the musicality of the song. But they were quiet, and I turned around, annoyed despite the thrum of music in my blood.

Conor broke the silence. "Dude, that was intense," he said softly. "You sure you're alright?"

Apparently the idiot was more observant than I'd thought. So I ignored him.

"Okay," he said good-naturedly after a few uncomfortable moments of my brooding silence, "let's keep playing, then."

"This," I said, flipping angrily through a handful of papers, pointing to the song that I'd started in the cab.

"Seriously?" Tyler asked, strumming a few chords as he glanced over the lyrics I'd written.

"I'm deadly fucking serious," I snarled, picking out the opening chords on my guitar. "Follow my lead."

_Shaking, like a dog shittin' razor blades._

As I practically growled the words into the microphone, they didn't make sense, but the latent fury in the words suited my mood. It turned out that not only was anger a safe emotion, it felt fucking amazing to get really pissed off again. _She_, I told myself, _neutered you. Kept you tethered to the ground_. This was freedom.

_I'm waking up next to nothing_

_after dreaming of you and me._

I hated to admit it, but, even when she'd lay next to me in bed, I'd dreamt of her; dreamt of her long brown hair brushing against my skin awake during the day and while I slept. Dreamt of her as more than just a stop sign, as more than just a rest stop on an endless highway of girls, girls and more girls. Dreamed of a man who could let her in. Fury bubbled hard inside me as the words pouring out of me exposed the fantasy for the fraud it had been and then shredded it into a million pieces.

_I'm waking up all alone;_

_waking up so relieved._

Was it relief? It could be. It _should _be, I insisted to myself. That Bella was gone once and for all, and the pressure was off to behave and to give her whatever the hell she thought she needed from me.

_While you're taking your time with apologies;_

_I'm taking my time with revenge._

The moments that I'd been sure we'd die flashed through my mind, how terrified I'd been that they'd make me do something unspeakable to her. Bella had never hesitated to stick her neck out for me then, and though it wasn't fair of me, I wanted her to keep doing it. No matter how fucked up I was. The chords ground out of me and for a split second, I wanted to call up Seth and every other contact I had in the whole fucking music industry and destroy her chances of ever making her blog a success, because she'd destroyed my pride. More than my pride, she'd ruined, at least temporarily, my ability to be okay with who I was. I'd never cared before this; I cared now.

_Red eyes on orange horizons  
If Columbus was wrong, I'd drive straight off the edge  
I'd drive straight off the edge_

It was only a matter of time, right? I told myself fatalistically. I was made to go over that edge; I lived for the thrill, the terrifying, exhilarating rush when you tipped right over into the danger zone. I craved the adrenaline rush; the comforting proof that I was worthless and fucked up.

_Taking your own life with boredom,  
I'm taking my own life with wine -  
it helps you to rule out the sorrow,  
it helps me to empty my mind,  
making the most of a bad time_

There was nothing like getting absolutely fucking wasted to drive away any emotions that I didn't want. Alcohol had always been my drug of choice, and as the song trailed off, my throat dried up and burned. I wanted to grab the smooth glass sides of a bottle, gratifyingly heavy in my hand, and tip it to my mouth. I wanted to obliterate the memory and the uncomfortable trail of Bella's temporary path through my life.

There was no point in fucking around with myself any more. No point in trying to be "good." I'd fall off that cliff sooner or later—and probably sooner rather than later.

Before Bella had left me, I'd cut my drinking down to a single glass of whiskey or a few beers in the evenings while I hung out with Jasper. I hadn't been drunk or even tipsy since the night Emmett had taken me to the Red Hands. And even stranger, I hadn't missed it. I missed it now. I missed the cleansing oblivion. But I couldn't drink and make music that was any fucking good so when we took a break, working on the bridge going into the chorus of the new song, I wrenched the lid off a bottle of water.

It wasn't what I wanted at all, but it would have to do. Besides, I was pretty fucking positive that Conor had made the studio as dry as the Saraha. He knew what happened when I drank, and he wanted no part of it.

The chorus drummed its incessant chords into my brain, melting into my cells, molding them—changing me permanently into this haunted wraith who thought he saw brown hair out of the corner of his eye every time he looked up. Even a commotion at the door didn't shake my concentration on scrawled lyrics. I didn't look up because I didn't give a shit who was at the door. It wasn't going to be her. It wasn't ever going to be her again.

"Edward."

I forced my eyes to stay on the lyrics, refusing to give Carlisle the respect his voice demanded.

"You just left," he continued, frustration mounting and though I still refused to raise my eyes to meet his, I knew he'd just run a hand through his hair, leaving it standing straight up. I'd seen him do it a thousand times. A million times. In fact, before Emmett had taken me to the Red Hands, it had been a scene I'd witnessed at least once a day. "Esme was worried sick, and we didn't know where you or Bella were. Then Alice found a note saying Bella had gone back to Boston."

Carlisle hesitated, and I could hear his words before he even said them. _And I knew you'd run._

"We're writing a song," I growled into the telling silence.

"It's good," Carlisle said, and before I remind myself that I hated him too, I looked up in surprise.

"It is?" I asked. I hated the way I sounded like an overenthusiastic, eager-to-please five year old, but I couldn't exactly take it back now.

"A little . . .dark and twisted, maybe—but significant."

"A hell of a lot better than some lame album of covers," I said with a savage pleasure. It had been so long since I'd been able to musically contribute anything worth a damn that I'd forgotten how good it felt.

"Boston, then?" Carlisle asked, his eyes guarded.

What did he expect me to say? Whatever had been happening with Bella was over. She'd ended it, and as far as I was concerned, not soon enough. If I'd stopped it back after the escape, then I wouldn't be feeling this way. _She _wouldn't be feeling this way.

I shook my head, and I tightened the grip on my anger. I got the anger. I understood it. Everything else felt alien and I couldn't handle it.

Carlisle was obnoxious enough to look sad but resigned. As if he'd expected any other answer. "I didn't think you would," he said quietly, "but maybe that's better for everyone involved."

I turned back to the music, my throat weirdly tight.

I cleared it awkwardly and lifted up the page of scribbled writing I'd just finished. "Always being Saint Carlisle," I tried to wrench out, but it came out sounding falsely angry instead.

He glanced down at me, and I realized he might know what I was going through and that why he giving me so much damn slack. I didn't even care if he knew everything, as long as he let me avoid facing myself.

"Finish your song," Carlisle told us, a lot more gently than I knew I deserved. "I'll be around. Vicky's boss is chomping at the bit to hear the new tunes—he may come down in a day or two. Be prepared."

I ignored the last part of what he said. I didn't want to face that yet. I wasn't sure I _could _face that. No doubt the label would be pissed off that I'd veered so far from their strict plan.

The bridge would have to be crossed eventually but right now, I wanted to make some kickass music, so I turned back to the band. "Chorus," I barked out. "Let's finish this shit."

_I've got a big fat fuckin' bone to pick with you my darling  
In case you haven't heard I'm sick and tired of trying._

_I wish you would take my radio to bathe with you,  
plugged in and ready to fall._

* * *

Forty eight hours later, my eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with cotton wool and my throat was drier than a desert, but we'd finished two more songs. _Athair_, I reminded myself, the song writing marathon forging us together in ways that we'd never connected before. Athair had finished two more songs.

They were hard and angry but somehow more vulnerable than anything I'd written before. For the first time, they were truly _ours,_ as if I'd been living under some kind of low level anesthesia and now I was awake and alert. Fucking pissed off, yes, but _alive_.

"Dude, I'm wasted," Conor said, crashing into a chair, his guitar propped up carefully by the arm. "Fucking _done_, but God that felt good."

"It did," I agreed with a worn half-smile. It felt instinctual to glance up into the sound booth now, to see that dream-like glimpse of brown hair and her sympathetic smile. It wasn't real, and I'd done my part to eviscerate her in my music, but Bella had been the genesis of all of this. Not just her leaving, but her push for me to write different music.

Better music.

_Someday you have to let the rest of the world see what I see. Even if it takes fifty years. Or a hundred._

I was so exhilarated I suddenly wanted to call Bella up and tell her, as if nothing had happened at all, that I'd managed to do just what she wanted and that it hadn't taken a hundred years. I'd done it right away—albeit with more than one song that was hatefully directed right at her betrayal.

"You did good," Conor said, his exhausted eyes red-rimmed but proud. "Now get to bed, you lazy, incompetent ass. The real work starts tomorrow, after you get some sleep." Nobody had ever dared to joke around with me before-but his smirk told me that not only was he kidding, but that he knew I wouldn't care.

I didn't know if I could even make it that far, but I stood anyway, the room swirling around me as if I was in a fog—or I'd had about ten too many glasses of whiskey. "There's a couch in the sound booth," Conor reminded me, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality, as if I was suddenly underwater. Or maybe it was him instead.

I froze. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't lay on the very spot she'd sat. Some undiagnosed and ignored feeling that could have been pain blossomed at the thought.

"I'll go home," I said as decisively as I was able, considering my exhaustion. Conor couldn't know of my weakness, but I wondered if maybe he'd figured it out anyway.

"Alright. See you in a couple days." We'd agreed to take a musical break, but I knew I'd be back in here right after sleeping. Idleness was unbearable; the only thing that kept all the shit at bay was the guitar my hand was wrapped around.

The door opened before I could reach for the handle and the flash of crimson hair was nearly blinding in the low light of the studio. I glared at Victoria dully, annoyed but too tired to drum up any kind of real anger. Or at least anger of any potency. I'd extinguished all that on Bella.

Victoria didn't bother with the niceties, but then she wasn't exactly nice. "Mr. Black is here to see you."

"Now?" I asked stupidly, too tired to even come close to processing the implications of her announcement. "Why?"

Her triumphant smirk broke through the fog and I realized she'd told her boss all about Bella and the new music. The music that was a complete 180 degree shift from what they'd been expecting me to make. I hadn't come to the studio, half-wasted, banging whores and groupies, laying down the tracks that the producer had shoved into my hands. I'd come in and done what I wanted, exactly the way I'd wanted it. No doubt Mr. Black didn't appreciate me shoving his shitty covers concept back up his ass.

If I'd felt even marginally less tired or marginally less confident or marginally less pissed off, I wouldn't have let him bully me into a meeting. But I bared my teeth at Vicky and said, "Alright, bring him in here."

That surprised her, and I didn't think there was a whole lot anymore that did that. I was reminded, with its accompanying flash of unrecognizable feeling, of Bella facing her down, of her protecting me fearlessly. "He's in his car, out front," Victoria pointed out awkwardly.

I didn't even answer, merely gave her a contemptuous glance that even at a low level might have singed the ends of her hair off.

"I'll let him know," she finally said awkwardly, and as she closed the door behind her, Conor stood up.

"Dude, don't let him hear this shit now," he murmured as he approached me. "This isn't good timing."

I waved with my free hand, not sure I even cared what Mr. fucking Black thought of what we'd created here. "Good. Bad. Timing is timing."

_Bella in my dressing room. Bella manipulating Emmett into taking her with me. Bella's warm hand in mine as we waited in the dark hellhole._

Different timing and I would have been a completely different person now.

The door opened again, and this time I saw Jacob Black behind the scorching red of Victoria's mane of hair. He didn't say anything at first, his eyes taking in the piles of empty takeout boxes and the empty water bottles scattered throughout the studio. He took in my bloodshot eyes and steady hands.

"Well, Mr. Cullen," Jacob drawled, his tone disbelieving, "I do believe this is the first time we've ever met and you're sober enough to remember me. _Do _you remember me?"

I remembered him alright. I just wished I didn't. Jacob Black wasn't tall, but he was built like a fucking Ford truck—low center of gravity and a ton of bulky muscle. Today, he'd accessorized his bulk with a tight-fitting black t-shirt and a pair of Eurotrash gray slacks. His dark eyes honed in on me, no doubt memorizing every single flicker of emotion on my face. He was one of the slimiest, most astute babysitters the label had ever assigned me, and I'd never hated any one more than I'd hated him. Now I thought Niall might have won that particular honor, but Jacob Black still came in a solid second place.

I nodded stiffly, acknowledging his unwanted presence. "It's a long drive from New York," I said roughly, my voice shot from two straight days of recording. "It's too bad you wasted your time."

He paused, those eyes absorbing the contents of the room all over again. "Victoria assures me that you've been making music here, and I can't say I'm inclined to disagree with her. Can I hear it?"

The most bizarre part was that I didn't even want to deny him; I _wanted _him to hear the songs we'd written. I was perversely proud of them, and I thought, if only for the briefest moment, that he might even like them.

"Of course," I said, trying to imitate his ingratiating tone. "Why wouldn't you be able to?"

We followed him into the sound room. I didn't look once at the couch. Conor and the boys lounged against the doorway, and I stood, awkwardly upright and sober and angry, in the middle of the room. The song I privately thought of as "Pretender," but that was yet unnamed began to play. I couldn't bring myself to even glance at Jacob as the melody built to its crescendo. The song was as perfect today as it had been that day we'd recorded it as Bella sat in the corner of this very room—perfectly expressing all that we'd been forced to deal with the man who had taken us and kept us against our will.

The music died away and I glanced up at Jacob, but his expression was totally blank. "Next," Jacob barked and the song I'd written to express all my anger against Bella started playing.

Still no reaction. I glanced away, a bad feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. He listened to a third song and then the sections we'd written of the fourth. Then there was nothing but silence.

"Edward," Jake finally said, "do you know how many copies you sold of _Aiming to Misbehave_?"

I shrugged. That had been the biggest heap of shit I'd ever recorded and the idea that it had sold more than ten copies was repugnant to me now.

"Three million," he told me conversationally, as if he wasn't discussing the fact that my POS album had gone triple platinum. "_Three million_."

"It was horrible," I burst out. "How is that possible?" I saw out of the corner of my eye that the rest of the band, Conor included, was filing out of the room, leaving me alone with Jacob and his henchwoman.

It was Jake's turn to shrug. "My personal theory is that you could literally shit into a CD case and it would turn into solid gold. But that's neither here nor there. You have a reputation to protect, and this isn't going to help it."

"Good music?" I asked, disbelief leaking into my tone. "Making halfway decent shit isn't going to help my reputation?"

Jacob sighed and leaned against the sound board. "You're known for your little amalgamation of shitty Irish music and punk rock, accompanied by a good dose of _I'm Edward Cullen, a fucking asshole_. And that's the music you're going to continue to make, because it sells."

I was speechless. I'd never considered the possibility—and I was fairly certain that Bella hadn't either—that what the label _wanted _me to make was albums like _Aiming to Misbehave_.

"Bullshit," I snapped, trying to keep my voice as level as possible. "You're lying."

"My orders," Jake said, still calm, as we were discussing his favorite soda flavor, "are to make sure you don't deviate from what you've always done. And," he waved his hand airily, "this is all a little too . . .difficult. Emotional. Messy. Not cut and dried, harmless rabble-rousing shit."

I was surprised that nobody else in the studio could hear the explosion. I felt it detonate inside me, and couldn't believe that it didn't turn my entire body to pink mist. "Emotional?" I screamed at him, rage coursing through me like the oldest, finest whiskey, intoxicatingly pure and blindingly strong. "Difficult? You're full of fucking bullshit."

Even in the face of my rage, Jacob remained still. Fearless. "Maybe," he suggested, "you could consider giving these songs to another artist."

The fury in me grew, until it closed off my throat and I was speechless with anger. At him. At the label. At Carlisle. At Bella. At myself.

"I'm sure we'll be in touch," Jacob said and suddenly he was gone and there was only red, blinding red, all around me. It took me a second to realize it was Victoria following him out the door, but I grabbed her arm before she could run away like the little bitch she was.

"You fucking _whore_," I snarled into her face as my vise-like grip closed over her wrist and I forced her against the wall just outside the door. The hallway was empty, Jacob and the rest of the boys long gone. It was just me and her, her widened eyes told me, and the animal inside cackled with glee at the fear and the lust seeping out of her skin. They all wanted me, even though they feared me. Every woman wanted the chance at unleashing the beast that was Edward Cullen.

"You did this on purpose," I continued, my face now only a quarter of an inch from hers, my body practically pressed up against her curvier one. She felt nothing like Bella and it was a fucking relief. I couldn't close my eyes and imagine that her hair was brown instead of fire engine red. I couldn't pretend she meant anything at all.

"Don't," she stuttered, "don't . . .don't . . .hurt me."

"Oh," I crooned with my old sadistic edge, "don't worry, little girl. It's not going to hurt." I pressed my lips to hers in a bruising, painful kiss; passion transformed into control and power.

She didn't even struggle and that disappointed me. Instead she just collapsed into me, as if I'd just fulfilled her darkest fantasy. If I'd treated Bella like this, she would have slapped me and then laughed in my face.

I pulled away abruptly. Vicky tasted like ash and bad wine, and I wondered if I was going to be sick. She stared at me for a few empty moments, as if she wanted me to continue right where I'd left off, but I'd lost my stomach for it. For other women, anyway. Victoria wasn't going to make me feel better any time soon.

As I stormed down the hallway, my boots making echoing earthquakes on the tile floor, I pulled my phone out and dialed the taxi service. There was only one choice left now.

I wasn't surprised to see Carlisle waiting in the growing darkness for me as the taxi pulled up to the front of Esme's house. "What do you want?" I snapped at him as I exited, throwing a handful of bills at the driver, not even caring which he'd received. My anger hadn't lessened at all during the drive—had only focused harder and sharper, until it was a laser beam ready to destroy anything and everything in its path.

"I just got off the phone with Conor. And I talked to Jacob Black. Do you want me to deal with it?" Carlisle trailed after me as I stormed up the stairs to the bedroom I'd slept in before.

"What's there to deal with?" I said, chuckling viciously. "They want me to be a fucking shit fest, just to make them more fucking money."

"I can negotiate . . ." Carlisle started to say but I cut him off, pausing in the doorway of the bedroom.

"No." Music wasn't a sanctuary anymore. Sanctuaries didn't fucking exist, only whatever I could find to numb me to everything.

He stopped and he glanced in the bedroom as I stalked over to the closet, where I knew I'd stashed a spare. I knew the moment he figured out what I was doing, but he was too late. Before he could reach me, I slammed the walk-in closet door shut and locked it, the click resounding in my head.

I didn't bother to turn the light on, but the bottle felt so familiar in my hand that I didn't have any problem wrenching the cap off. "To Bella," I toasted wryly into the darkness as Carlisle pounded against the door at my back.

It turned out that oblivion wasn't so overrated after all.


	35. I'm in Here

**AN: I would offer more apologies, but I don't know if they would just fall on deaf ears. In any case, I AM sorry for the delay. I would go into the details of why and how it took so long to write this, but suffice it to say, the issue lay more with the subject matter than with my time constraints. Basically, I am all angst-ed out. I've met the love of my life, and in the middle of being perfectly, incandescently happy, it's a little difficult to really connect with Punkrockward and Brit Bitch. The good news? I finally managed to get this out, and Dixie held my hand until it was readable-which took awhile. The even better news? This story is about five chapters away from complete and each chapter gets more positive and happier, becuase by the end of this, our favorite couple is finally on their way to healing.**

**Lyrics are from "I'm in Here" by Sia.**

* * *

**Chapter 34: I'm in Here**

_I'm in here._

_Can anybody see me?_

_Can anybody hear me?_

_Can you hear my call?_

_Are you coming to get me now?_

_I've been waiting for you to come rescue me._

_I need you to hold all of the sadness I cannot_

_live with inside of me._

**Bella**

Can you ever return to a life you've left behind?

A life you've outgrown?

I wandered the empty rooms of the loft apartment that I'd shared with Alice for years−every inch of the space so familiar that I could have walked through blindfolded—and it wasn't that far from the truth for the days after I returned to Boston.

I was blind. Deaf. Dumb. Insensible to anything but the gaping hole in my chest, sure that I would stay in this limbo forever, like a ghost, drifting through life but never really _living_ again. The third morning after returning to Boston, I laid in bed, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, and tried to think, to _feel _something, but I was still too shell-shocked to assimilate this shocking return to normalcy. I knew I should pick up the threads of the life that I'd left behind when I'd blackmailed Emmett into taking me with Edward, but what had felt so real before now only felt like a fading dream.

I'd told Alice on the phone that I'd needed to come home to work on the blog, to concentrate more on my career. It had gone unsaid between us that I needed to concentrate on anything but Edward. Despite what I'd bravely proclaimed, I'd yet to write a single word. The laptop from Edward lay silent and untouched, the low hum a constant reminder of what I'd lost—and that wasn't just him. I'd been happy, if not spectacularly so, in my old life, but I knew that I'd never be able to go back to that life and find any sort of satisfaction. I'd lost not just Edward, but direction, meaning and purpose.

The third morning dawning over the horizon, I realized what that meant. I couldn't go back. I couldn't stay here in limbo forever. There was only one thing left for me to do.

I was going to have to move forward. No sooner had that thought detonated in my sleep-starved brain than my cell phone rang. The number wasn't familiar, so, since it wasn't Alice or Renee trying to be sympathetic and well-meaning, I answered it.

"Hello," I croaked, my voice rougher than sandpaper after 72 consecutive hours of silence.

"Bella Swan?" the man's voice asked, but didn't wait for confirmation of my identity. "We met briefly last weekend at Esme Platt's house. This is Seth Clearwater, online . . ."

"Online content editor for _Rolling Stone_," I finished wryly, surprising even myself with the ability to have a sense of humor about how he'd impacted my life. "I remember you."

"I thought you might," he replied with only the barest trace of irony. "You're a hard woman to track down."

"Excuse me?" I asked stupidly, all too aware I wasn't exactly keeping up my end of the conversation.

"Many phone calls to Edward later—unanswered phone calls; straight to voicemail, in fact—I finally had to call the Ice Queen herself. And getting that number wasn't exactly easy, but I have some pull with an editor at _Vanity Fair_." He paused. "That's really neither here nor there. I called because I knew when Edward mentioned your name that I'd heard of you before, and two days ago I remembered. You're the girl that wrote that review of _Aiming to Misbehave_."

I closed my eyes and briefly considered hanging up and never answering when he called back, but then I remembered the man had already dug up Esme Platt's cell phone number. Not only would he call back, but going straight to voicemail wouldn't stop him. "Yes. That was me," I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it tough to speak, "though I'm not sure why it matters."

"Esme also sent me a few blogs you'd left behind—rough drafts, as I understand them." I cursed the day I'd printed them out. I'd wanted Edward to read them, but then things had gone sour between us, and he'd never had the chance. "I want to hire you," Seth continued, "to write."

"You do?" I couldn't help the dumbfounded tone in my voice. I'd realized the entries were good, of course, but the idea of writing for _Rolling Stone _was so far-fetched, I hadn't even known to reach that high.

"Yes. And not just for the website, though that'll definitely be a component. The print editor I talked to loves your point of view, and wants to see more, so I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up in the magazine." His voice was excited, and he paused, hanging, waiting for the inevitable, "_oh my god, I'm going to be writing for _Rolling Stone_," _reaction he was expecting.

He wasn't the only one. I was waiting for it too, waiting for my own excitement to kick in, but I was still too foggy from not enough sleep and too much emotional carpet-bombing. It was just like Edward, I thought bitterly, to suck the happiness out of life, even during something spectacular like this. If we ever spoke again, I'd have to tell him that he owed me one spectacular, joy-filled reaction—complete with jazz hands and pom-poms.

"That's great," I finally said, my attitude conveying the exact opposite. "I'm very flattered."

"Do you need to think about it?" Seth asked, suddenly sterner, like I was actually contemplating turning down _Rolling Stone_ and he needed to remind me what kind of opportunity this was.

"No, of course not." There was no reason _to _think about it. The offer was everything I'd wanted since I'd started the blog, years ago. I just wished that I could feel better about the way Seth had discovered my writing. "You do know. . ." the words tumbled out, before I could stop them, "I've cut ties with Edward. I won't be writing about him."

"I thought as much," Seth sighed, "but no, writing about Athair isn't a pre-requisite. This wasn't us trying to use you to get to him. You should know how talented you are."

"I just wanted to make sure," I added a bit more firmly, finally feeling like I was finding my footing in this conversation. "Because if the offer was contingent on Edward Cullen, I'd have to turn it down. Reluctantly, of course."

"Of course," Seth said. "Reluctantly."

I laughed, the gravely sound taking both of us by surprise. "So you do have a sense of humor," Seth added, much more warmly.

"You just caught me by surprise," I confessed. "It's been a rather odd few days."

"I thought you might say that," Seth said, and the almost conspiratorial tone he used confused me.

"I think you're mistaken," I said carefully, "I haven't seen Edward in days. I've been in Boston since Saturday."

"Then you don't know?" he asked, and my heartbeat slowed to a sluggish, nauseating crawl. Something had happened to Edward and nobody had bothered to tell me. It couldn't be good by the almost gleeful attitude Seth had about being the one to inform me. "There's a huge standoff between Edward and the label over the next album. Carlisle's been negotiating. As for the man himself, he's strangely silent suddenly. Nobody's sure where he is in all this."

_It's not your business anymore_, I told myself, repeating the words until they bled together_. Nothing you need to worry about_.

"Oh," I said lamely, afraid to say anything else, afraid to let my feelings, the sudden debilitating fear that another horrific event had befallen Edward, show—but my silence was an answer of a different kind.

"Playing your cards close to your chest, I see," Seth teased gently, and I bristled.

"I told you," I retorted, "Edward's off limits. Today, tomorrow, and any time in the near future."

"Alright, then," Seth said breezily, after a pregnant pause. "I'll email you the details of your meeting in New York next week. We'll arrange for transportation. You'll be up here for a day or two, meeting some of the editors, getting a feel for how we do things here."

The rest of the call passed in a haze of details and the overwhelming sense that I was both drowning and gasping for air at the surface.

After Seth hung up, I sat up, edging my way out of bed until my feet hit the cold wood of the floor. The shock jolted me almost more than Seth's news had, but the combination propelled me up and forward. There wouldn't be any more sitting around, waiting for the shards of my past life to suddenly reanimate and coalesce into something I recognized. I was going to have to build it all again, from scratch, and the job offer from _Rolling Stone _was the first cornerstone.

I took my first shower in three days, the hot water streaming over me for what could have been hours. When I exited the foggy bathroom I felt reborn, as if I'd scrubbed away all the old skin, leaving only the new behind.

The phone rang again, its tone shrill and jarring in the quiet silence of the loft. Wrapped in only a towel, I scampered over to the bed. Not recognizing the phone number and assuming it was Seth, calling back with more details—or worse, to change his mind—I clicked the accept button and held it up to my ear.

"This is Bella," I said breathlessly. In the last half an hour, I'd somehow re-discovered some of my curiosity and thirst for life. The loss of Edward and what he could have been was still a dull ache, but even that pain couldn't dull the hope spreading through me.

"Bella, it's Esme." Her voice was cold and dark—the ice cold reserve I knew she only used when she was desperate to hold back any and all emotion—and it sent me sprawling back to earth.

Seth's gut instincts had been right then; something was wrong with Edward. Esme wouldn't have placed this call unless she had no other choice.

"I shouldn't be calling," Esme continued in an uncharacteristic rush. "I promised myself I wouldn't put you in this position, but . . ."

There was always a "but." Everyone had their price, and Esme Platt's had always been her son.

"What has he done?" I asked flatly. I didn't understand what the purpose was in calling me; it wasn't as if I had any sort of mystic power over Edward and his behavior. If I had . . .

_Stop it_, I ordered myself as harshly as I could, _stop it right now. _There are some what-if's that should never be touched, desperate circumstances or not.

"He became very upset," Esme said softly. "An argument with the record label, compounded I suppose by a lack of sleep. He just . . ._broke_, Carlisle said, and then he locked himself in the closet and has been drinking steadily for two days. He won't leave and he won't let anyone in."

I said nothing. For one ridiculously self-centered moment, I wanted to think that this breakdown was because I'd left, but then I focused on the more important bits of information that Esme had given me. He was in a closet, he hadn't left in two days, and he'd been drinking—and then, of course, all I could think of was the possibility of a world without Edward Cullen.

"How do you know he's still alive?" I blurted out.

"An hour ago, I heard a crash and him muttering some lyrics."

"And you're sure he's been drinking?"

"His voice . . ." Esme trailed off, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think she was trying not to cry.

"He's definitely been drinking. Carlisle said that he kept alcohol in easy to access places. I'm sure he had some stashed away in the closet. I think that may be why he chose that place to hide."

I wondered, not a little bitterly, if his show of reigning in the excess that had so previously defined his life had just been one big, fake act. If, after having sex until I passed out from exhaustion, he'd gone into his closet and drank half a bottle of whiskey to sufficiently numb himself to me and to everything around him.

There wasn't much I'd put past Edward anymore, and it hurt to contemplate that I might not even have those few untouched, unspoiled memories.

"Bella, you need to come tell him to open the door."

The pitch had been in progress from the moment I'd answered the phone, but the sudden delivery of it and its simplicity surprised me. I'd expected Esme to come from a much more subtle angle, but then I supposed she didn't exactly have the luxury of time.

"It wouldn't make a difference if I asked," I admitted. "He doesn't care about me."

"You're wrong," Esme countered, the sudden fierceness in her voice making me wonder if she'd always believed this much in her son's feelings for me. If she had, she'd certainly never mentioned it to me. "Carlisle played me some of the music he wrote over the last couple of days. He cares. He'll open the door for you."

"I'll make it even easier on you," I said calmly. "Just break the door down. Simple, neat, and you don't even need me for that."

"It's a very thick door—mahogany, actually, and the lock is very secure. We're not sure we can break it down without harming him."

The silence stretched between us, the last words Esme had spoken echoing through it. It seemed as if harming himself was the one thing Edward wanted most.

"Please," Esme finally broke down. "Please come talk to him, at the very least."

My knees trembled and I felt them give way. I landed on the side of the bed with a soft plop, the flap of the towel opening from my knee to my thigh. Tracing the skin of my kneecap, I leaned back and tried to find the hopeful place I'd discovered just before this phone call. "Please don't ask me to do this," I said quietly.

"It's too late for that now, Bella," Esme said firmly, but with an unbearable sadness to her voice. "I'm sorry."

"I'll take the train, then."

"No need," Esme countered. "I've already sent Emmett down with a car. He'll be there in an hour."

I felt vaguely offended. She'd already known I'd give in. "You knew I'd say yes," I said accusingly, but I didn't have the energy to give it much heat.

"I'm sorry," Esme repeated. "He's my son, and you love him. Those seemed like good enough reasons."

I could have argued but in the end, Esme was right. I clicked the phone off and, with a sinking stomach, turned to get dressed in anticipation for Emmett's arrival.

It was worse than even I was able to imagine.

The door to Edward's closet, which I'd never noticed while staying at Esme's house, was as solid as a brick wall. I laid my cheek against the smooth, hard wood and tried to discern the sound of Edward's breathing, but all I could hear was silence.

Turning back to the assembled group behind me, I let out a shaky breath. "When was the last time anyone heard anything?" I asked, and my voice trembled a little. Fear that he had passed out, that he was unconscious in a puddle of his own vomit, that he might have blood alcohol poisoning—the worst of the possibilities had been racing through my head since Esme's phone call, and until someone could give me a definite answer, I couldn't breathe easily. It might have been a touch overdramatic, but I loved him, and love, I'd discovered in the last seventy hours, was enough to make or break an entire life.

"Twenty minutes ago, we heard a thump," Rosalie spoke up. "I'm sure that was him. Him or a bottle."

My stomach churned and I glanced back at the heavy door. "I'm going to try to talk to him."

Six pairs of expectant eyes gazed back at me, and I felt the unbearable, terrible weight of their collective hope. "Alone," I added. "I want to be able to tell him the truth, that I'm alone. It's the only way he'll open the door." I didn't know for sure, of course, but I kept up the false bravado of certainty. I knew I couldn't try to convince him with them staring at me, and if I knew Edward as well as everyone thought I did, I was right anyway. With all of them there, I had zero chance of even getting him to listen.

Esme looked like she wanted to argue, but I saw Carlisle squeeze her hand, and she said nothing, only nodded.

"We'll be downstairs," Jasper said, as the group filed out of the bedroom. "Let us know if you need anything, Bella."

Room empty, I turned back to the door. Cautiously I approached it, and laid my head against the word again. "Edward," I said as loudly as I could without actually screaming, "you need to let me in. It's Bella." I wanted to believe that he'd know my voice, know it was me on the other side of the door, but there was no telling how much he'd had to drink. I might be a Martian, for all he knew.

Nothing. Total, utter silence.

I tried again.

"Edward. Open the door." I raised my voice into what could be construed as a yell. After all, polite manners were probably a little unnecessary considering the direness of the situation.

Nothing still.

I pounded on the wood, growing exasperated. "Open this door right now!" I demanded. "I need to talk to you." _Actually, _I mentally corrected, you _need to talk to _me_._

"Edward," I repeated, voice growing louder. "_Edward_."

Finally, after what felt like a million years, and could have only been minutes, or maybe even seconds, I heard some rustling inside the closet. Encouraged, I pounded on the door until my hand felt bruised and swollen, but the pain felt nothing like compared to what I'd felt when I'd feared Edward dead.

Mid-thump, my fist fell not on solid wood, but empty air, and I gaped in surprise as Edward's face glowered at me.

"What the fuck do you want?" Edward growled. "Why can't everyone just leave me the fuck alone?"

"Edward!" I exclaimed, too grateful he was alive and breathing and _speaking _to care that he was mad. I shoved the door open and flung my arms around him, apparently forgetting all about our last conversation in the euphoric thrill of finding him safe and unharmed.

He staggered back and my weight carried us a little farther into the dark closet. As my eyes adjusted and I pulled away to look around, I absorbed the evidence of what Carlisle had suspected. It smelled like a distillery, but Edward himself was even worse. His skin looked pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot. … and I thought I saw a full bottle set aside in the corner that could only have been filled by Edward himself. Stomach churning again, I scooted back from him and laid a hand on his chest.

"Edward, what are you doing?" I whispered. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

He pulled the door closed savagely, slamming it shut and cloaking us in total darkness. The smell from the bottle in the corner grew stronger and I swallowed hard.

I waited for what felt like an eternity. And then another. Still, he said nothing, so I asked again.

"Edward," I pleaded, "talk to me."

When he finally spoke, his voice was rusty, as if it had been unused for a very long time. "It was so easy, so _clear_, when we were locked up," he said softly, dreamily. "So few choices when you can't leave. Can't go. When someone else is calling all the shots."

"It was," I agreed, "but we made choices anyway. We chose to . . ." I trailed off as I realized what I was about to say, but as I hesitated, I decided that I had hidden how I felt long enough because I was worried that he would be afraid or run. He'd already run. He'd chased me off. There was no shame in me feeling what I felt, even if it was for a man like him.

"I chose to care about you," I said firmly this time. "You chose to care about me."

He was quiet again for a long while. "That wasn't because of where we were. Where we were made it easier for me not to be me. . .for me not to fuck it up. For me to see you clearly."

"It was easier for you to see yourself more clearly, too," I added gently, scooting closer to him and laying a reassuring hand on his arm. "I didn't dream what happened between us. Neither did you. It happened. It just couldn't survive going from the dark to the light. Real life is too complicated for some things."

"I didn't want it to be. I wanted it to keep it," he said wryly, with only the barest hint of a slur to his words. "I wanted to keep you, but it wasn't fair of me to do that to you. Some other girl, maybe. Not you."

So many times I'd read novels where if the main characters just had a _real _conversation, where when they laid all the cards, even the embarrassing or humiliating ones, on the table, the whole conflict would be resolved. I'd always told myself that if I was in one of those situations, I'd do that. What I had never realized was just how hard it was to expose yourself completely without a certainty that the other person was willing to the same.

I'd never been a gambler. I'd played it safe almost my entire life, but from the beginning of our friendship, from the moment I'd met him, something about Edward had prompted me to throw caution to the wind, and I did so now, rolling the dice and laying every card I owned right out for him to see.

"I wanted to keep you, too. I _want _to keep you. But I can't, not like this. Not with you resorting to locking yourself in closets drinking bottles of whiskey, and losing it over confrontations with your label. And it's not your actions that scare me. You might pretend to be okay, but you're lying to yourself and to everyone else. You're not okay. You haven't been okay in a long time, and what happened with Niall and Jane blew what was left of you that _was _okay to bits."

When he didn't say anything, I kept my grip on his leg firm. Unwavering. I didn't want him to think I regretted what I said. I didn't. I would go back and say it a million times. I might have a broken heart—okay, a _more _broken heart—because of them, but it felt good to finally get the truth off my chest. Like the first step in healing, regardless of what he said or thought or did because of my words.

"I'm not okay." He said it questioningly, as if he was asking himself, testing out the waters of the realization. "I'm _not _okay."

"You're not okay," I said firmly. "You're definitely not okay."

"I'm not okay," he repeated.

"Do you want to be okay?" I wasn't nearly as sure about this question, but it needed to be said.

"I didn't want to do this," he said quietly. "I did, but I didn't. I wanted to do something normal. Something not crazy, for maybe the very first time in a long time. But the force of it was too strong. I couldn't fight it. I fought it for as long as I could."

"Oh," was the best I could manage. I'd never imagined that he'd done this because there hadn't been anything else _to _do.

"I fought it because of you," he added so quietly that I almost didn't catch the words. I leaned in closer, nearly resting against him as he continued. "I thought hated you, but I didn't hate _you_. I hated the way you made me feel. Out of control and crazy and nuts."

"Are you saying you're in this closet because of me?" I asked.

"Yes." He paused. "No. I'm honestly not sure why the fuck I'm in the closet."

"Because it was safe," I reassured him, leaning against him completely. "Because you could control it."

He was quiet for even longer, and I nearly fell asleep in the dark, resting against the comfortable bulk of his body, a comfort that I'd enjoyed so many times while we were locked up by the Red Hands, and after, while we were staying with Esme. I'd only been without it for a few days, but those few days felt like forever.

Finally, he answered the question I'd asked so many minutes previously. "I want to feel okay. Not really for me. I'm used to it, I guess. But for you."

That made me sit up and pay attention. "For me?"

His voice was gruff and matter-of-fact. "You said you didn't want it to end either."

"I don't," I said, confusion spreading through me.

"But you can't be with me, not when I'm like this."

"No," I said steadily, realization dawning. "Not when all I'm doing is waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"And if you knew it wouldn't drop? Or if it did drop, that it wouldn't drop very far?"

I took a deep breath, instantly regretted it and tried not to gag at the combined stench of pee, whiskey and unwashed male. "I wouldn't want it to end. You know that."

"I can't promise you I can really change," Edward said, his voice distant. "I'm not really sure you can change all that much, I mean change who you _really _are, but I can be better. I want to be better for you."

In the weeks since I'd met him, I'd never once really believed that I'd hear him say those words. Hearing them was unbearably sweet, but I couldn't help the warning bells clanging in my head. "You need to change for you—because _you _want yourself to be okay," I corrected softly. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, because I do. It's . . . amazing," I said, even though even those words were insufficient to express truly how I felt about his confession. "But it needs to be for you, not for me."

I felt him shrug. "If I do it, if I get the help that will make me better, why does it matter?"

"It matters," I said firmly.

"Then I'm doing it for me." His laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing told me that he wasn't really serious; he was just giving me lip service so that I'd believe he was fixing himself for the right reasons, but I wasn't sure he really was. There was only one way to make sure of that, and I hated the thought of tearing myself away from him again, but it had to be done. There was no other way to know for sure.

"Edward, you know, we can't be together while you do this. And I can't give you a promise that we'll be together after either." I said it as seriously as I could, with the hope that he would take it that way.

"I don't understand."

"We can't be together while you get better. After you feel you've made progress, we can check in, I guess, but I won't make you a promise that everything will be fine then either. I don't know if I can promise that."

"I see." His tone of voice told me that he didn't see at all.

"It has to be this way, Edward."

"But this is what you _wanted_," he said in exasperation. "Why you left in the first goddamn place. Because you wanted me to be better. Well, I'm getting better for you, and that's still not enough."

"It's not that it's not enough," I tried to reason, "it's that I can't know if you _can _be better until you show me."

"I hate this," he grumbled, and I smiled, secure that he couldn't see in the deep black of the closet.

"I know," I said reassuringly. "It sucks, trying to be okay."

"You're not being fair, either," Edward pointed out, and I was secretly amused at the almost outraged edge to his voice. "If you were being fair, you would give me your word that we could be together after."

"I don't want to make you a promise that I can't keep," I explained. "It could take months or maybe even years. Things could have changed for me."

"They won't change for me," Edward said with certainty and I felt a little breath of relief.

"Probably not for me either," I added.

"Good."

"Now can we get out of this closet? It stinks."

Edward rose to his feet unsteadily and held out a hand for me to grasp. "You know, this is bullshit," he said as held onto the doorknob. "I don't want to do this crap for anyone but you, and if you're not going to promise me . . ." he trailed off and looked at me so directly I felt uneasy, the euphoria of his promise to heal fading in the dark air.

"It's a different kind of promise," I clarified. "A promise to yourself. You can't get better for you if you're worrying about me."

"A promise to myself? That's lame," Edward grumbled and I couldn't help but smile at his annoyance.

"If you get what you want, that's not so lame."

"If you say so," he finally relented. Though he still carried the vestiges of frustration on his face, there was something in the way the air felt as we opened the door and walked outside for a second time—and even though it was as Edward had said, "lame," there was promise in the air. Promise in the way his eyes lingered on me as I led him out of the dark closet.


	36. Questions and Answers

** AN: So this is pretty much the last thing I ever expected to have happen. I labored for months and _months_, trying unsuccessfully to break my awful writer's block. Finally this week I admitted to myself that maybe I was just permanently blocked. I put SotF on permanent hiatus, to let anyone who was starting the story that it might never be finished. Of course, two nights later, I'm hit with a sudden, completely unexpected inspiration that helped me finish a chapter that I started last April. Now that I'm unblocked, I think the last few chapters of this will flow.**

**A caveat-this chapter is completely unbetaed and might be complete shit. You can even tell me that, if you think so. I just couldn't wait to get it to those loyal readers who have been waiting for so long to hear what happened with Edward and Brit Bitch.**

* * *

**Chapter 35: Questions and Answers  
**

**Edward**

I didn't want to be here. In fact, I could think of about ten million places that I'd rather be—and most of them were with Bella, I was able to admit to myself—but to be those ten million places, I had to be here first.

Or maybe, I thought as I paced back and forth nervously in front of Gianna, it wasn't so much _where _I was that I hated, it was who I was forcing myself to talk to.

"Edward," she said gently—a little _too _gently, I thought—"please take a seat. You seem nervous."

You fucking _think_, I almost said, but I stopped myself right before the words spewed out. I was supposed to be behaving. I was supposed to be spilling my guts to her in an emasculated, totally-in-touch-with-my-emotions way. The problem with all of this was that the emotions that I'd spent my entire lifetime locking up and denying existed didn't seem to be on board with the new plan.

So instead of snapping, I plopped down on the couch.

"Where do we start?" I asked in frustration, annoyed by just how hard this was turning out to be. The bad half of my personality didn't want to stay leashed and Bad Edward, as I'd taken to calling him, was proving difficult to manage. "I don't know what you want me to fucking say."

Gianna just kept smiling away, as if I couldn't mess with her impenetrable calm, though I'd been doing my best to do just that the last few days. "Whatever you want to say, Edward. This is a safe environment—I want you to say whatever you feel comfortable saying."

I opened my mouth, sure that something, fucking _anything_, would come out. Whatever it was that I felt comfortable saying, but there was just empty, silent air between me and the counselor.

It felt moronic, sitting there in front of the woman, who couldn't keep a ridiculously pleased, cat-ate-the-canary smile off her face, as if she was so fucking glad she could _help_, with my mouth wide open and nothing forthcoming. I snapped my mouth shut.

For the first time in the forty five minutes we'd been in the same room, I thought I saw her smile falter slightly. _See, _the Bad Edward hissed slyly in my ear, _she can't handle it either. Bella couldn't, and neither can she._

What could have been five more minutes or maybe fifty went by in more silence. The fucking woman just sat there, no longer smiling quite so bright, but grinning toothily at me all the same, and waited me out. It was too bad that when it came to waiting, I was the expert and she was merely an amateur.

"Edward," Gianna said, breaking the thick, heavy silence, "maybe the problem is that you don't feel comfortable saying what needs to be said."

Bad Edward wanted to say something nasty or possibly sarcastic, but I stifled that shit right away. _Best behavior,_ I told myself, _for Bella._

_For you_, I nearly heard her voice whisper back.

I shook my head, afraid that if I spoke again, all the vituperative hate and nasty, cruel remarks that Bad Edward was so proficient at making would spew out and I'd lose all the progress that I'd made so far.

Okay, so it hadn't exactly been progress, but at least we hadn't slid backwards. If Bad Edward was allowed to speak, I had a feeling that Miss Crest Whitestrips wouldn't be back for round two.

"If you can't say it to me, if you can't say it out loud even, that's not a bad thing," Gianna continued. "Words have a power to them that can make them tough to say. How about we try something else . . .writing them."

"Writing?" Even Bad Edward could be curious, it seemed.

"I'd like you to keep a journal." She lifted a simple black leather-bound book out of the bag resting near her chair, and thrust it at me. This time she was smart enough not to smile. Maybe she'd begun to realize that every single time she did, I felt an overwhelming urge to forcibly remove all those gaudy teeth with my fist.

I took the journal and casually riffled through the pages, feeling a strangely itchy feeling in my fingers, as if they couldn't wait to grasp a pen and sprawl the same words I couldn't speak on the blank sheets.

"Write down what you can't say," she instructed, "everything you've never said out loud."

"I don't think you get it," I interrupted Gianna before she could finish, "I'm Edward Cullen. I tend to overshare. A lot."

She gave me a knowing smile—this an antithesis of all the glitzy, shit-eating grins of earlier—and only said, "Well, then it'll be easy then, won't it?"

* * *

**_June 29_**

_This is supposed to be easy._

_A snap._

_A cinch._

_A piece of fucking cake._

_Instead, all I'm writing is a bunch of synonyms so I can avoid it completely._

_Instead, I'm going to make the argument that Gianna is fucking wrong, and writing a word is a lot more powerful than ever speaking it. No. Scratch that. The most powerful version of a word is when it's set to a melody you can't forget._

_There are melodies in my head right now—a fucking ton of them, sneaking their way into my head and my ears. If I was superstitious, I'd say they were haunting me._

_I just stared at this page for ten fucking minutes, debating if I should even write what I wanted to._

_Fuck it, nobody's going to ever read this, Gianna included if I have my way, and so I'll just say it._

_She's a ghost. Haunting me. Whispering her way through my thoughts and my brain and even my body, sometimes. I remember the way her hair felt as it slipped through my fingers, dark and soft and mysterious, but familiar. Like it was something I'd known I'd feel sometime during my life._

_My entire life, there's never been a single woman that I couldn't forget as easily as I wanted to. I wish I could forget her, if only so I could sleep at night. I toss and turn and wait for insanity to take me and finish off what it started._

_It's funny, I can almost think, almost conceptualize what I should say, when I think of her. If I sit here, perfectly still, and imagine the way it felt to feel her hair brush against my skin, I almost know what I should write._

_Maybe that's finally where I should fucking start._

* * *

_**June 30**_

_Last night when I couldn't sleep, I remembered when I ran away from home._

_Maybe remembered isn't the right word. I'm not sure I ever really forgot, more like I never thought about it and so eventually I could pretend that it had happened to someone else._

_Esme and I fought from nearly the time I could talk. I think maybe she wished some days that she could send me back to my father's family and say good riddance, once and for all. I was a real brat, but she wasn't exactly the sweet, accommodating type either. Our battles became fucking epic as I got older, and when I turned fifteen, it was safe to say that any influence she'd once had was completely gone._

_We'd had a huge blowout that night, after I'd come home late after school—more like midnight than the four pm curfew that she'd been fucking trying to enforce. I was a little drunk and a lot high, and she'd launched herself at me, yelling about every single one of my worthless qualities._

_Maybe something just snapped. I was upstairs, in my bedroom, putting my guitar in the closet, and I just wanted her to stop—stop talking, stop yelling, stop incessantly trying to turn me into something I didn't want to be. The top of my guitar case jutted out in front of me, and I had turned just a hair too fast, and she'd gone down like one of those skyscrapers they blast to a million fucking tiny pieces._

_It was just as big and even more damning. When she picked herself up off the floor, she was quiet and I remember thinking that before she went down, I was still that scared little boy inside. He was gone the second the guitar case sent her flying to the floor. Then she told me to get out, and she stood by the door and unapologetically stripped me of every credit card and every last twenty that I'd pulled from my allowance account._

_I still remember the last thing she said to me: "You're just like your father."_

_And I decided then that I would be exactly like him, because that would mean I was nothing like her._

* * *

I watched as Gianna read through the entry I'd written the night before, and tried not to smirk.

I failed.

She was quiet for a long time after shutting the leather bound journal, a contemplative expression on her face. "You have a lot of nerve," she finally said quietly, her dark eyes unexpectedly pinning me hard to the floor. I couldn't move and I couldn't look away.

"I don't get it. I did what you wanted," I said with as much false affront as I could manage.

"I didn't ask you to lie."

"You don't know that it's a lie."

She looked at me again, those eyes sending me to the floor as surely as Esme had.

Or had she?

Gianna threw the journal on the floor between us, like it was worthless and not worth the paper inside.

"We both know this is a bunch of bullshit. You're not a bad guy, Edward. Not the villain you want everyone to think you are."

"I'm fucked up," I said as straight as I could. "You know that." _Even Bella knows that, and she loves me._

"Oh, I'm not disputing that. What I'm disputing is this whole bad boy persona that you've been working so hard at for the last ten years. It's not working."

I wondered if she had read _anything _about me before I'd hired her to counsel me back to normalness. Hadn't she read all the articles about drugs and booze and too many women? About the bar fights and the endless nights of partying? Surely she'd even read Bella's review of _Aiming to Misbehave_.

"Of course it's working," I scoffed. "Everyone believes it."

"What everyone else believes doesn't matter," she said so straightforward that I nearly gaped. Of _course_ everyone's opinion mattered! Rosalie had recommended a therapist who was also _insane_. "The only thing that matters is what you think of yourself."

She paused, as if she was letting the insanity of her statements sink into my consciousness. "And what do you think of yourself?"

I didn't know how to respond. "I don't understand the question."

"You," Gianna pointed at me. "What do you think of _you_?"

I realized then that she'd been calling my bluff. And in a moment of ridiculous clarity, I understood more than I had in years.

"I never hit her," I said slowly. "I'm not the kind of person who would hit his mother."

Gianna sat back, then, a self-satisfied smile on her face. Her teeth didn't look nearly as white when she smirked at her success, especially when it was at my expense.

But was it really? "What do you want me to say?" I finally blurted out. "Do you want me to say that I act out so that I don't ever have to meet expectations? That my mother scares the fucking shit out of me? She's just so fucking perfect—she scares everyone."

The smirk didn't waver. "If it's true, then yes, I want you to say it."

"Fine." I paused. "It's true."

"You're not all that fucked up, you know," Gianna said conversationally, as if she wasn't spouting craziness. "At least not in the way that people think you are. You aren't an alcoholic. You aren't a druggie. You aren't an addict. You're just scared."

Maybe if her words hadn't been hitting me someplace deep down that I'd tried to forget about forever, I would have scoffed at the ridiculousness of that statement. But suddenly I wasn't sure it was impossible. Something had made me do all those things, and it wasn't enjoyment. I didn't like being an asshole. I wasn't happy; I hadn't been happy in so long that I wasn't even sure I remembered what it felt like.

And then I remembered. _Bella_. That was what happiness felt like.

"I have to go." I stood suddenly and awkwardly. "There's something I have to do."

Gianna's gaze narrowed on me. "Oh no you don't. Now that we're getting somewhere, you're not going anywhere, _boyo_."

I sunk back into the chair, thinking that Gianna herself could do a fairly decent impression of the Ice Queen when forced. "Fine. What are we going to talk about?"

I should have known when the Crest Whitestrips teeth came back with a vengeance, but I was stupid and naïve and ignorant.

"We're going to start at the beginning, of course."

* * *

We talked. And talked. And then talked some more. Gianna and I talked until our throats were parched and dry. We talked until we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer. We went to bed, and then the next morning we got up and over breakfast talked some more. And then we talked the entire day.

The next day was the exact same. And the day after. And then the day after that, when I felt raw and flayed and absolutely naked—every single fear and pain and hidden insecurity laid to rest before Gianna—she finally sat back and went quiet.

I had been talking—well, I thought of it more as arguing, but Gianna insisted that we refer to it as 'discussing'—about how I didn't know how to be someone who wasn't the antithesis of Esme.

Gianna looked at me with this knowing smile. "And would it be the end of the universe to be something like her?"

Six months ago my answer would have been swift and unequivocal. Today, I paused and _thought_, before I answered her. "Not exactly . . but not every part of her," I added hastily. As if I would ever want to host garden parties and redecorate the Hamptons house every other year.

"Name one thing she's done that you respect," Gianna asked, which was pretty typical of her questions. She poked and prodded and pushed until everything I'd spent a lifetime hiding came spewing out. It wasn't pretty but at night when I laid in bed and thought about it, I had to admit that I felt . . ._better_. Definitely less like there was something toxic in my system trying to choke me to death.

"She saved me." I thought again. "Twice."

"So she's loyal."

"To me anyway."

"To people who matter. To people she _loves_," Gianna corrected gently. "And would you consider yourself a loyal person?"

At first, I had answered these types of questions with statements straight out of the Edward Cullen Fuck Off Collection, but Gianna had told me in no uncertain terms that she wasn't looking for some kind of overly dramatic pity party, but the answer for the person who I really was, underneath all the bullshit.

Now I knew better than to be a sarcastic shit, because just like Bella, Gianna wasn't going to take that.

"I'd like to think I'm loyal," I admitted. "I stood by Emmett. I stayed Jasper's friend even when he couldn't play ball anymore. And I promised Bella I would wait for her."

"Because you love her."

The way Gianna said it, it was so _reasonable_. Like it was the most obvious statement in the world. Why then did the words stick in my throat still? I knew I did, I just couldn't seem to voice the sentiment out loud.

Bella never had told me either, but she hadn't had to—it had been written all over her face when she'd left in the middle of the garden party. She'd known that I'd seen it and had been humiliated and upset that I couldn't reciprocate something that was so basic, so _obvious_.

"You do love her, don't you?" Gianna asked again and my tongue felt heavy and numb—stuck, even.

"I can't," I finally managed to wrench out. "I can't tell her. I can't say it out loud." I felt more naked than I had even through some of Gianna's soul-searching question and answer sessions. It was harder to admit I couldn't say it than I had thought it would be. Admitting it was like baring the deepest, ugliest part of me. The part of me that felt the fear the worst.

"Okay." Gianna sounded so reasonable, like this was a piece of cake. She obviously still didn't know me, and she clearly hadn't understood a whit about Bella, even though I'd talked about her all the time. "What is it that's so scary about telling Bella that you love her?"

The better question was: what was _not _scary about telling her?

"Um, _everything_?"

"Specifics, Edward," Gianna chided me gently. She knew I knew better. She also knew I was avoiding the question.

"I'll be. . .vulnerable. Open. She'll have all kinds of power over me." I said it in a rush, like I could take it back just as quickly. But I couldn't. It was out there now, and now neither of us could deny what I'd admitted to.

"Would Bella ever use any of that power against you?"

That was one of the easiest—if not _the _easiest question—that Gianna had asked me over the last several days. "Of course not. Bella would never do that."

Gianna spread her arms in confusion. "Then I don't see the problem. She loves you; she would never hurt you or use you or betray you. And what have you repaid that trust with? Nothing. You have given her nothing of yourself."

I wanted to fight back, to argue that I had given her everything I _could _give—my real name, my life, if it had come down to it. But those seemed like empty, hollow arguments when faced with what Bella was offering.

"Doesn't she deserve that part of you, Edward? For the kind of steadfast love that sticks with someone through what you two have experienced?"

She _did _deserve it, unreservedly, which was probably why I was hesitating. She really deserved someone much better than me, but as that knowledge settled inside of me, I also knew I was too much of a selfish bastard to give her up for someone else to take. If Bella was going to be anyone's, she was going to be mine. Hell, she already was, if I could find my balls and just _tell _her.

"I need to go," I said again, and this time, Gianna just smiled.

"I need to go," I repeated. "I need to go to her."

"Yes, you do," she agreed. "What are you going to tell her?"

"A lot of things, I think," I said. "About me and about my mom, and about why I've been scared to be me, but that she's always made it okay to be me. That she's always seen straight through all the bullshit to the _real _me. But mostly I need to tell her that I love her."

The smile Gianna gave me could have sold billions of Crest Whitestrips.

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?"


	37. Heroes

**AN: What a journey Bella, Edward and I have taken over the years. I posted my first chapter of fanfiction (and my first Twilight fanfiction) on June 18, 2008. In the interim time, Edward played matchmaker, won a few gold medals, brooded over Esme's change, and finally rocked out with Athair. There is so much I want to say, _need _to say to the readers and writers of this fandom, because I couldn't be where I am today-be _who _I am today-without you. Usually you can count on me for a few hundred thousand words, but today I think I can break it down to just two: thank you. Without fanfiction, I never would have realized that I was a writer, and that's a gift that can't ever be repaid.**

**Is this my last chapter of fanfiction ever? No. Fanfiction is in my blood. It's kind of hard to quit it entirely.**

**Is it my last chapter of Twilight fanfiction ever? Yes. Of course, there are no absolutes in the world, but I don't see myself revisiting this world or any world connected to Twilight again.**

**What's next for me? I do intend to finish my GG stories (someday). I am working on a Downton Abbey short fic. I am sure there will be bethaboo stories as long as there are fandoms for me to obsess over. But mostly, I am working on original fiction.  
**

**Obviously some individual thanks are due: JosieSwan, wherever you are, if you are even reading this (or even if you're not), this story wouldn't exist without you. You pushed and prodded and made me think about what I _really _wanted to say. Emmward, for enabling my Red Sox mania. TheEdwardEmmett, who wanted me to make this story gorier. Sorry, no blood and no guts. Not my style, but I love you anyway. Dixie, my darling, darling love, you bullied me and tore this damn thing down until I rebuilt it the way it should have been written all along. My gratitude, always.**

**But mostly (okay, completely), this story is for you guys, who stuck with Edward, Bella and I to the bitter end. Now, I will shut my wordy, self-aggrandizing mouth up and let y'all read.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 36: Heroes**

**Edward**

_Bella, I'm sorry I'm so fucked up. I wish I could be better for you, but I can't. _

The words sound stupid to me, and were hardly inspired enough to win a girl like Bella back from the place I'd pushed her, but with Gianna's approbation, for the first time in my life, I felt confident I could do something I'd set my mind to. Of course, I hadn't gotten to Bella's apartment yet, but in the last twelve hours I hadn't fucked it up, or even tried to fuck it up. This was serious progress, so I shook off my sudden attack of nerves and climbed what seemed like an endless fucking staircase to the loft Esme reassured me that Bella shared with Alice.

The stairs finally ended, and I came face to face with my demon: Bella's front door. Once I'd made it this far, I hadn't even imagined that I would have so much fucking trouble doing the simplest part of all: knocking on the damn door. Still, I found my resolve was sticking, and I stood there for what felt like an eternity, the voices that I'd tried to shut the hell up screaming at me inside my head.

If they were to be believed, then I was a pathetic, painful loser who didn't deserve to lick the bottoms of Bella's feet, even if she was wearing her ratty old Vans.

I'd spent enough time with Gianna to know that all of this second guessing, all this fucking mental _noise_, was bad, but I couldn't seem to drown it out. My feet stuck to the ground, like I'd been superglued to the gritty concrete floor, and I couldn't even feel the muscles or tendons in my hand anymore. I glanced down and realized the reason why—I'd clenched my fist so tightly that it took active thought and effort to pry my fingers out of my sweaty palm.

It hadn't felt this way when I was sitting on Gianna's plushy couch, spilling my guts, but right now, demanding that Bella accept me, fucked up brain and all, was selfish. Guilt swamped me, and I closed my eyes tightly against the wave that broke over me. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be doing this. It was all one big, epic, fucked up mistake that made the bar brawls and the hundreds of dirty groupies and yes, even _Aiming to Misbehave_, look like a walk in the fucking park.

But even then, I couldn't turn away. Turning away from Bella– and god damn my clichéd soul—her fucking _light_, felt like the final nail in my coffin. If I let her get away now, if I never knocked on the door, if I didn't make my selfish plea, then I was as good as dead. I would mourn and grieve and lick my fucking wounds and guzzle whiskey until I was as pickled as a herring. _But if you're saving your own life_, that nasty voice inside me whispered insidiously, _you're ruining hers. She'll never be able to completely trust you not to fuck her over, to leave her, to destroy your relationship._

I'd never wanted to be the fucking hero before, and I didn't want to be one now, but facing down Bella's door, I wasn't sure I really had a choice anymore. I knew she loved me. I knew she would probably take me back into her life, because she wanted to believe it could work. Fuck, I wanted to believe it would work, but experience had always taught me that whatever I set my mind to, I messed it up, because I could, or because I didn't take enough care to make sure it stayed safe.

I thought of Bella, curled in my arms in the dark, locked up in that house of horrors, and how free I'd felt when Jane had held that door open to us. Free and _safe_.

And then it hit me.

Maybe I wasn't the knight on the fucking white charger, but I'd done what was necessary to ensure that Bella had made it relatively unscathed from that hideous experience we'd shared.

Most importantly, she'd been safe. As safe as I could make her. And then I knew that I might accidentally fuck it up with Bella, but I would never do it on purpose. I wasn't built that way anymore. I'd finally found something that I wanted more than to protect myself from failing.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, the voices whispering inside, pouring poison inside my head, went mercifully quiet, and when I went to lift my arm to knock on the door, it moved just as I wanted it to. I didn't hesitate again. I knocked.

And I knocked again. Nothing. I wondered if maybe I had horrible fucking timing, and I hadn't caught Bella at home, but that didn't seem right. Esme had been certain that both Alice and Bella would be home, and that Emmett and Rosalie would be with them.

I had just about decided to take a seat on the stairway and wait for them to come back when the door abruptly swung open. What I saw made my blood freeze and congeal inside my veins, and my heart skip a beat, and then two.

Bella was standing there, pale as a sheet, her eyes hard and bright in her white face, and Jane was standing behind her, pressing a nasty looking revolver to her temple.

"Get in," Jane hissed, and I stumbled on the door frame as I tried to make my uncooperative legs cross the boundary back into hell. "It's lucky you decided to show today. That makes two for one. I don't have to go hunt you down."

"Hunt me down?" I asked stupidly as the door slammed close behind me and Jane and Bella paraded back in front of me. Bella's eyes were glued to mine, huge and afraid, but she said nothing. "But you let us go."

"Stupid me," Jane snarled, poking Bella in the temple so hard with the gun that she almost stumbled. I glanced up and saw that we were in a living room with Alice, Jasper, Emmett, and Rosalie all assembled in front of us. They were frozen in place, like a silent tableau, waiting for the worst to happen.

"I let you go," Jane crooned in that certifiably insane voice of hers, "but darling Niall couldn't take it that you'd gone. And he . . ." she mimed pulling the trigger on the gun she held to Bella's head and I couldn't help it—a strangled half-gasp erupted out of my throat as I saw Bella dead, her brains all over the floor. But Jane hadn't pulled the trigger, and I managed to gulp air back into my uncooperative lungs. _But she might next time, _the nasty voice in my head whispered.

"For that," she continued, "you and _her;_ you both have to die. And I'll take the rest of you with me too, since you're lucky enough to be here."

I glanced up at Emmett, and the expression on his face was cold, dead fury. I wondered why he hadn't tried to overtake Jane yet, but still nobody spoke. I moved to Jasper next, and with only the slightest of head movements, he shook his head. _Don't do it, _he said to me.

That was easy for him to fucking say—there wasn't a gun literally pointed at the love of his life's head.

"I know you're thinking about it," Jane told me conversationally as she pushed Bella closer to the group frozen on the other side of the couch.

"Thinking about what?" She already thought I was stupid. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to play into her beliefs, but Jane shot me a hard look, and I realized why nobody had attacked her yet—this was one girl you didn't fuck around with. She was armed and deadly, and she had a gun pointed at Bella's head. Worst of all, you knew she wasn't going to be afraid to use it.

It was then that it hit me—we were all going to die today, at her hand—and all I wanted in that moment was to tell Bella I was in love with her.

"She's going to die, you know. You all will. One by one. The real question is," Jane paused briefly, tapping one finger near her viciously curled lips, "which one of you is first?"

I knew from Bella's expression that she'd already realized what the answer would be, and dread sank deep into my bones. I was never going to be able to tell her. I was too late, and she was going to die never knowing how I felt about her, how she'd pulled me from the muddy, soul-sucking swamp that had been my life before her. I could only hope, from the way her eyes remained locked with mine, that she somehow knew from the expression on my face.

Jane noticed our unspoken communication. "Of course, I suppose you all know who's first. No big surprise there."

Bella's hands folded tightly together in front of her, and I could tell she was bracing for the moment Jane committed the inevitable. In that last wrenching moment, I wanted to do something, to be there for her last time, to ride in on the grand white horse and save her, even if it meant dying in her place. As though she could read my mind, Bella gave me one last imperceptible shake of her head, as if to tell me _no, because it wouldn't matter anyway_—but a tear dripped down her cheek, and I had never wanted to save her more.

So I did the only thing that was left. I didn't let the overpowering fear dictate the last seconds of her life, and I held her gaze, steady and even, pouring all the love I hadn't said into that last look. I couldn't save her, but I could at least make sure that she wasn't alone when she died.

I saw Jane pull the trigger in slow motion. Her finger had not yet started to move, but before it could fully commit to the action, an explosion detonated like a bomb in the room.

It was a fucking iron, Hello Kitty pink and white, essentially harmless, but when perfectly placed, shooting like a rocket out of Jasper's hand, had enough velocity to knock the gun from Jane's grip. The gun detonated harmlessly into the ceiling before dropping metallically to the concrete floor. Seconds later, Jane had joined it, under Emmett's furious, bone-breaking grip. He held her there, helplessly pinned to the floor, as Jasper retrieved the gun, and, with hands that still trembled, raised it slowly until it was pointed at her the way she had held it against Bella.

I didn't want to know how he had been able to throw the iron with his hands shaking so much, or where he had even found the damn thing, but I found that when it came down to it, I didn't even care. All I knew was the soul-deep sigh of relief that echoed through me as Bella flung herself at me.

_She was alive_.

"Edward," she moaned as she shook in my arms. I held onto her as tightly as I could, as if I could absorb her very life into me. I couldn't truly believe she hadn't died until I felt her heart beating rapidly against the palm of my hand.

"I'm so glad you're safe," I whispered to her, though, of course, we weren't exactly yet. Jane was still here, and there was still a gun. Bad things were still within the realm of possibility.

As Jasper held the gun on Jane, Emmett retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed.

"Marcus. Yes, it's Emmett. We need some. . .assistance." He paused. "No, as soon as possible. Ten minutes ago would have been great."

His face went dark. "Yes, she's here. Subdued. Okay. We'll wait."

Jane still hadn't said anything, her head down, not even glancing up at the gun that Jasper held at her. I could see from the crooked angle of her arm that the iron had probably broken it from the force, but she didn't even whimper from pain.

The next ten minutes were terrifying, but not as terrifying as the last five minutes had been. I still hadn't let go of Bella, I _couldn't_, not until the danger was truly eliminated.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, there was a knock on the door. Rose, still pale as a sheet, walked to answer it.

"Be careful, Rose," Emmett warned from his position holding Jane down. "Check the peep hole."

She did, and even from across the room, I could hear her breath exhale shakily as she saw who it was.

"We're friends," I heard a deep voice say from the other side of the door. "From Marcus."

Rose opened the door wider, and a huge man dressed in black cargo pants and a bulletproof vest walked in, followed by another two men that could have been his brothers in size and shape. Apparently Marcus wasn't fucking around anymore, but Jane only glanced up once, otherwise making no acknowledgement from her position on the floor.

"We'll take it from here," one of the men said, ruthlessly grabbing one of Jane's thin arms and dragging her to her feet. She didn't even resist him, and I wondered if maybe she had just lost her will to fight. Maybe she had lost it when she'd lost Aro.

For a split second, I thought I knew what she might be feeling. When I'd thought I'd lost Bella, everything inside had shrunk until I'd felt absolutely fucking nothing. But then the vision of Jane standing next to Bella, her finger on the trigger, swamped me, and for a split second, I saw red. This bitch had nearly killed the only woman who had seen through the bad, the ugly, and the even worse parts of me and had loved me anyway. For that, for giving Bella even the slightest moment of fear that her life was over, she deserved to lose her own.

That was the last thought I had when the men pulled that bitch out the door. _No sympathy_, I thought, _and no quarter_. _Súil ar shúil, fiacail ar fhiacail__._

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

I didn't realize I was squeezing my fingers into fists until Bella gave a little cry of pain and instinctively I released her wrist. "Sorry," I murmured. "Instinct."

She laughed a little wryly. Her voice was still shaky, but I could tell she was more in control now, once Jane was no longer in her sight. "It's okay, I want to kill her too."

"For threatening you?"

Bella shook her head. "No. Well. . .that's not necessarily true. Yes, I hate her for that. I hate her for making me face my own death for the second time, but it's not only that. I hate her because I almost didn't hear what you came here to say. I hate her for almost making sure I'd never know."

"And now?"

"Oh, I still hate her," Bella admitted. "That fucking lunatic almost shot me."

"You're right," I took a deep breath, pulling her closer, until her head rested on my shoulder. "I did come here to say something to you."

"I thought you might have. I didn't want to open the door because then you'd be in as much danger as we all were." I thought I felt Bella's lips widen into a smile against my shirt, but I could have been wrong. "Even then, I still wanted to know what you'd come to say."

"I'm fucked up." She definitely smiled this time. In fact, I thought people in the next _county _could probably have felt that one.

"I think we covered that pretty well last time we saw each other."

"I'm probably never going to be totally normal," I forged on. "I should probably do the right thing, the honorable thing, I guess, and let you go. But I'm a selfish bastard."

It felt like every muscle in my body was unwinding from a lifetime of holding on to fear I had never understood. With Gianna's help, I'd identified what fucked me up, but that didn't mean I was "fixed." Maybe I'd never really be normal, but at least I knew the kind of life-destroying things that fear could make me do, and hopefully, with a hell of a lot more therapy, I might not feel like doing those things as much as I used to.

"Well, we knew that already," Bella interjected, her voice muffled against my shirt, "but go on. I'm listening."

I took a deep breath. "You know that once I tell you, I'm never going to be able to go back to before. You're never going to be rid of me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It might be, for you." I couldn't help the last few moments of Bella-preservation. It turned out I had a ridiculously long martyr steak, but then considering my own family history, I supposed that shouldn't have been much of a surprise.

"Will you stop it?" Bella pulled back and looked me square in the eye. "For god's sake, I know exactly what I'm getting into with you, and though it might be a terrible decision, and in five years I might wonder if I've lost what was left of my mind, but I knew ten minutes ago that you were the last person I wanted to see before I died. And that should count for something."

"So you're saying I should just tell you I love you, because you love me too?"

In the end, it was that easy. Her brow furrowed, and I could see the wheels turning in her head, like she was trying to figure out if she'd heard me correctly. But of course, she had.

I knew the moment she figured it out. The strength of her smile was wattage enough to banish more of the cobwebby fear that still resided inside of me—and maybe, combined with the words of encouragement I'd heard from Esme and Carlisle before leaving, combined with the power of the music that Athair and I had created together, combined with the velocity of Jasper's fast ball and Emmett's unflagging devotion, just maybe, it would be enough to prevent more of those life-destroying events.

Maybe it would be enough to make sure Bella was always there for me, and enough that I could always have the chance to be there for her. The armor might be a little tarnished, but I was still wearing it. That was all that mattered

"You bastard," she said, but there was no heat in her words. "You fucking bastard. Damn it, I love you too."

I was just about to kiss her, the first _real _kiss, when we were untimely and rudely interrupted.

"You know, hate to be the third wheel, but I just wanted to make sure you two were alright," Jasper drawled, his arm around Alice, who was gazing up at him as if he were a combination of Apollo and Brad Pitt. Of course, I thought with pride, Bella's expression was somewhat similar.

"Dude," I said, unwinding an arm from around Bella and holding it out to him. We clasped hands, and even though I couldn't exactly find the words to tell him how thankful I was he'd saved Bella's life, I thought he might understand at least a little of what I felt. "That throw was unfuckingbelievable. I didn't know you could still throw like that."

"I didn't know it either," Jasper confessed. "I just closed my eyes and prayed. The craziest thing is I thought for the longest time that the most important pitch I'd ever throw would be at Fenway, but I guess stranger things have happened."

"We're both grateful," Bella said, and I could hear the choked back tears in her voice. "More than I can say."

Emmett walked back into the room after finishing up with Marcus' men. Rosalie was at his side in an instant, her lips brushing his cheek, as if she needed to reassure herself that he still lived and breathed. He glanced down at her hand, at the ring flashing in the light, and he gave her hand a light squeeze. "Everything is taken care of," he said quietly. "_She _will be taken care of. The most important thing is we're all safe."

"Safe," Bella repeated. "We're safe."

"But are we ever really safe?" Alice wondered, her voice trembling.

I glanced over at Bella, and I could see from her expression she was deep in thought. "Maybe safety isn't what it's cracked up to be," she finally said slowly. "I knew it wasn't safe to go with Edward in the first place, but thank god I did, because otherwise Jane might have killed him earlier."

Lyrics echoed in my head, teased to life by Bella's words. She'd helped me create so much and hadn't even realized it; this was simply another example of the gifts she gave. "Paper," I leaned over and whispered in Bella's ear. "And a pen."

She glanced over at me fondly, understanding exactly what I needed. I felt my heart expand and contract with the constancy and steadfastness of her devotion. I was fucking _honored _by it. By _her_. "Bedroom," she whispered back.

Bella's bedroom was peaceful, like a cool spring day. I glanced over the navy blue comforter, searching for the pad I knew she kept near her at all times and finally found it lying on her desk, next to her laptop.

I picked it up, pen in hand, ready to scrawl down the lyrics that our conversation had inspired, but I had to stop short. The pad was already full of words. Bella's words.

* * *

_Entry 457 Pt 2: Aiming to Misbehave, The Redux _

Dear Edward Cullen,

When I wrote Entry #457 four years ago, I was burning with outrage and disgust at the depths to which you'd fallen. I announced to the world that I was renouncing you and your music. I said I'd given up hope that you could create anything worth listening to.

I was wrong, Edward. There is a tenacity of hope in you, in your lyrics, in the driving, soaring cacophony of your melodies. Even when it disgusts me, and _Aiming to Misbehave _did, I couldn't ignore or forget the tantalizing possibilities your music aroused in me. To this day, they echo in my soul, but most importantly they echo in my heart.

Often we think of heroes as abnormally gifted men in tight suits and capes, flying around the world, trying to save it. We think of the men who give their lives to their country, to their cause, as heroes. We expect our heroes to be something larger than life, something _extraordinary_.

But, to quote Dave Grohl, "there goes my hero, and he's ordinary."

My entire life, my father was my hero. I never believed he was wrong in giving his life to duty, even while I railed against him for leaving me alone in the world. I hated that he left me, but I never once wondered over the rights and wrongs of his decision. You did what he couldn't; you saved me and you saved yourself.

Your constancy, your bravery, your sense of humor when faced with bleakness—it is all of those that make you a hero, and a hero who did everything but compromise what he believed in, so he could stay alive. I know you believe that you're fucked up, and maybe you are, but if fucked up is what got us through the singularly most difficult experience of my life, I'll take your brand of fucked up any day.

Once, you told me that you wanted to write an album that would change the world.

What I don't think you realize is that you already have.

_Aiming to Misbehave _is a part of you, Edward. Shiteous music, hideous lyrics, awful cover art and all, it is a paean to the fear that you let mismanage you for so long, and it's also a symbol of what you are truly capable of, when you learn to shed the baggage. Without _Aiming to Misbehave_, the album you have yet to write that will change the world could never have happened. Without it, I never would have met you, and I never would have been privileged to know the inner hero that you hide away from everyone else.

That hero saved my sanity, and he saved my life. He fought against the fear inside of himself so that he could be a better person for me. He endeavored to deserve the love that I freely bestow on him.

I don't want to bury him under all of _my _fear, so let me be clear with you and with the world. I risk everything with you, but I would rather risk it with you than risk nothing and be alone.

I love you, Edward Cullen, even when you're _Aiming to Misbehave._

**THE END**_  
_


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